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The weather had
turned stormy and wet. A shouting wind from the west shook the
lantern of the tower room and flung rain heavily against the glass,
while Bendigo moved restlessly about and bent his brows to look out
into the blackness of the night.
"The poor devil will be drowned, or break his neck climbing up from
the sea in this darkness," he declared.
Giuseppe had brought up a jug of water, a bottle of spirits, a
little keg of tobacco, and two or three clay pipes, for the old sea
captain never smoked till after supper and then puffed steadily
until he went to bed.
He turned now and asked Doria a question.
"You've cast your peepers over the poor chap to-day," he said, "and
you're a clever man and know a bit of human nature. What did you
make of my brother?"
"I looked closely and listened also," answered the servant; "and
this I think--the man is very sick."
"Not likely to break out again and cut another throat?"
"Never again. I say this. When he killed Madonna's husband, he was
mad; now he is not mad--not more mad than anybody else.


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