To him I related
what had happened.
"O--ho," cried he, "attempted murder, hey? Our friend must be taught
that we don't allow this sort of thing to happen aboard _us_."
He gave certain orders and shortly afterwards the third mate was
seized and locked up in a spare cabin just under the break of the
poop. Two powerful seamen were told off to keep him company. How much
the unfortunate man needed this sort of control I could not have
imagined but for my hearing that he was locked up and my going to the
cabin window that looked on to the quarter deck to take a peep at him
if he was visible. He saw me and bounded to the window, bringing his
leg-of-mutton fist against it with a blow that crashed the whole plate
of glass into splinters. His face was purple, his eyes half out of
their sockets. There was froth upon his lips, with such a general
distortion of features that it would be impossible to figure a more
horrible illustration of madness than his countenance. I bolted as if
the devil had been after me, catching just a glimpse of the powerful
creature wrestling in the grasp of the two seamen who were dragging
him backwards into the gloom of the cabin. Such an escape as this I
regard as distinctly more eventful, if not more romantic, than falling
overboard and being rescued when almost spent, or being picked up
after a fortnight's exposure in an open boat.
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