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Scott, Michael, 1789-1835

"Tom Cringle's Log"

Something flashed in the
sun, and the man fell! his left arm, the hand of which still clutched my
throat, while mine grasped its wrist, had been shred from his body by
Obed's cutlass, like a twig; and, oh God, my blood curdles to my heart
even now when I think of it! the dead fingers kept the grasp
sufficiently long to allow the arm to fall heavily against my side,
where it hung for some seconds, until the muscles relaxed and it dropped
on the deck. The instant that Obed struck the blow, he caught hold of
my hand, threw away his cutlass, and advanced towards the group of the
felucca's men, pistol in hand.
"Am I not your captain, ye cowards--have I ever deceived you yet--have I
ever flinched from heading you where the danger was greatest--have you
not all that I am worth in your hands, and will you murder me now?"
"Viva, el noble capitan, viva!"
And the tide turned as rapidly in our favour as it had lately ebbed
against us.
"As for that scoundrel, he has got no more than he deserves," said he,
turning to where Francisco lay, bleeding like a carcass in the shambles;
"but tie up his arm some of ye, I would be sorry he bled to death."
It was unavailing, the large arteries had emptied his whole lifeblood
he had already gone to his account.
This most miserable transaction, with all its concomitant horrors, to my
astonishment, did not seem to make much impression on Obed, who now,
turning to me, said, with perfect composure,--"You have there another
melancholy voucher for my sincerity," pointing to the body; "but time
presses, and you must now submit to be blindfolded, and that without
further explanation at present.


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