Horae momento cita mors yen it--you remember the phrase?"
Diggle leaned against the wooden wall, watching with malicious enjoyment
the effect of his words. Desmond was very pale; all his strength seemed
to have deserted him. Finding that his taunts provoked no reply, Diggle
went on:
"Time presses, my young friend. You will be logged a deserter from the
Good Intent. 'Tis my fervent hope you never fall into the hands of
Captain Barker; as you know, he is a terrible man when roused."
Waving his gloved hand, he moved away. Desmond did not watch his
departure. Falling back from the window, he threw himself upon the
ground, and gave way to a long fit of black despair.
How long he lay in this agony he knew not. But he was at last roused by
the opening of the door. It was almost dark. Rising to his feet, he saw a
number of men hustled into the shed. Ranged along one of the walls, they
squatted on the floor, and for some minutes afterwards Desmond heard the
clank of irons and the harsh grating of a key. Then a big Maratha came to
him, searched him thoroughly, clapped iron bands upon his ankles, and
locked the chains to staples in the wall. Soon the door was shut, barred,
and locked, and Desmond found himself a prisoner with eight others.
For a little they spoke among themselves, in the low tones of men utterly
spent and dispirited. Then all was silent, and they slept. But Desmond
lay wide awake, waiting for the morning.
The shed was terribly hot.
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