Jack Harkaway and His Son's Escape from the Brigands of Greece Part 122

"Beware!" chimed in the others, as in one voice.

"I warned you that the time would come when you would beg for mercy of my father," pursued young Jack. "I told you that you should grovel in abject terror, and plead in vain--aye, in vain."

"Never!" retorted Hunston.

"To-morrow will show you."

"What?" cried Hunston, in feverish eagerness, while he dreaded to hear.

"Your fate."

"It is false."

"The rope is ready--the noose is run. You shall die a dog's death."

"And you shall die hard," added Harry Girdwood.

A groan, more fearful than any which had preceded, burst from the guilty wretch.

"But Harkaway will be merciful."

"As you were."

"No, no, no; he is full of forgiveness, I know."

"But not for crimes like yours."

"He could not pardon you, even if he would."

"Why not?" demanded Hunston, quickly.

"Because the crew would drag you piecemeal. No, no, no, Hunston; your fate is sealed. The rope is ready--the noose is waiting for you. In torment and in suffering you shall die the death of a rabid cur, the death of a loathsome reptile, of a poisonous thing of which it is true humanity to rid the earth."

He could hear no more.

With a moan of incalculable terror he dived under the bedclothes to shut out the fearful vision.

When he ventured forth again, they were gone.

Vanished!

They had returned as noiselessly as they had come.

"Basalt."

"Hullo!"

The drugged sailor fought with the opiate which had been administered to him and opened his eyes.

"There's no one here, is there, Basalt? Tell me."

"What are you muttering about now?" demanded Joe Basalt, in his surliest tones,

"Are we alone?"

"Of course."

"I have had such an awful dream, my good friend," said Hunston, still on the s.h.i.+ver.

"Then keep it to yourself," retorted Joe. "I don't care the value of a s.h.i.+p's biscuit for your dream--yours nor anybody else's--so stow your gaff. Close your peepers, and let me get a few winks, if I can, always providing as I'm not troubling your honourable self."

Not even honest old Joe's withering irony could affect the patient, so profoundly pleased was he to find the supernatural visitors gone-- melted, as it were, into thin air.

Hunston turned on his side, muttering--

"If I had but the giant strength of Toro, I would soon take my revenge upon all this s.h.i.+p contains--yes, a deep and deadly revenge."

After a moment, he again muttered--

"I wonder if the brigand Toro is alive or dead, or if I shall ever have his help to destroy my old and hated enemy Harkaway."

CHAPTER XLVII

WHEREIN HUNSTON'S EVIL PROPENSITIES CATCH HIM IN A TRAP-- DANGER--ANOTHER SHARK--MR. MOLE SUFFERS.

"I have had such horrible dreams, doctor," said Hunston the next morning.

"I don't much wonder at your dreams being ugly ones," replied the doctor, significantly.

Hunston coughed.

There was no mistaking the doctor's meaning.

The conversation hung fire for a moment.

"I can quite understand that you may dream of many things which would scarcely bear repet.i.tion."

"That's not the case," angrily retorted the patient.

"Indeed."

The end of it was the doctor treated the patient for the feverish symptoms which the tricks of the night had created, and as the day wore on, he got calmer and better.