It seemed to his eager impatience that that day would never end.  It was November, and the beginning of the cold season, and the work of the dockyard, being urgent, was carried on all day without the usual break during the hot middle hours, so that he found no opportunity of consulting his fellows.  Further, the foremen of the yard were specially active.  The Pirate had been for some time fearful lest the capture of Suwarndrug should prove to be the prelude to an assault upon his stronger fort and headquarters at Gheria, and to meet the danger he had had nine new vessels laid down.  Three of them had been finished, but the work had been much interrupted by the rains, and the delay in the completion of the remaining six had irritated him.  He had visited his displeasure upon the foremen.  After his interview with Desmond he summoned them to his presence and threatened them with such dire punishment if the work was not more rapidly pushed on, that they had used the lash more furiously and with even less discrimination than ever.  Consequently when Desmond met his companions in the shed at night he found them all in desperate indignation and rage.  He had seen nothing more of Diggle; he must strike while the iron was hot.

When they were locked in, and all was quiet outside, the prisoners gave vent, each in his own way, to their feelings.  For a time Desmond listened, taking no part in their lamentation and cursing.  But when the tide of impotent fury ebbed, and there was a lull, he said quietly: 

“Are my brothers dogs that, suffering these things, they merely whine?”

The quiet level tones, so strangely contrasting with the tones of fierceness and hate that were still ringing in the ears of the unhappy prisoners, had an extraordinary effect.  There was dead silence in the shed:  it seemed that every man was afraid to speak.  Then one of the Marathas said in a whisper: 

“What do you mean, sahib?”

“What do I mean?  Surely it must be clear to any man.  Have we not sat long enough on the carpet of patience?”

Again the silence remained for a space unbroken.

“You, Gulam Mahomed,” continued Desmond, addressing one of the Biluchis whom he considered the boldest—­“have you never thought of escape?”

“Allah knows!” said the man in an undertone.  “But He knows that I remember what happened a year ago.  Fuzl Khan can tell the sahib something about that.”

A fierce cry broke from the Gujarati, who had been moaning under his charpoy in anguish from the lashings he had undergone that day.  Desmond heard him spring up; but if he had meant to attack the Biluchi, the clashing of his fetters reminded him of his helplessness.  He cursed the man, demanding what he meant.

“Nothing,” returned Gulam Mahomed.  “But you were the only man, Allah knows, who escaped the executioner.”

“Pig, and son of a pig!” cried Fuzl Khan, “I knew nothing of the plot.  If any man says I did he lies.  They did it without me; some evil jin must have heard their whisperings.  They failed.  They were swine of Canarese.”