“He tumbled down, with his head hanging over the side of the boat.  I did not give him a second glance.  The other cried out piercingly.  Only one shriek of horror.  Then all was still.

“He slipped off the thwart on to his knees and raised his clasped hands before his face in an attitude of supplication.  ‘Mercy,’ he whispered, faintly.  ‘Mercy for me!—­comrade.’

“‘Ah, comrade,’ I said, in a low tone.  ’Yes, comrade, of course.  Well, then, shout Vive l’anarchie.’

“He flung up his arms, his face up to the sky and his mouth wide open in a great yell of despair.  ‘Vive l’anarchie!  Vive—­’

“He collapsed all in a heap, with a bullet through his head.

“I flung them both overboard.  I threw away the revolver, too.  Then I sat down quietly.  I was free at last!  At last.  I did not even look towards the ship; I did not care; indeed, I think I must have gone to sleep, because all of a sudden there were shouts and I found the ship almost on top of me.  They hauled me on board and secured the boat astern.  They were all blacks, except the captain, who was a mulatto.  He alone knew a few words of French.  I could not find out where they were going nor who they were.  They gave me something to eat every day; but I did not like the way they used to discuss me in their language.  Perhaps they were deliberating about throwing me overboard in order to keep possession of the boat.  How do I know?  As we were passing this island I asked whether it was inhabited.  I understood from the mulatto that there was a house on it.  A farm, I fancied, they meant.  So I asked them to put me ashore on the beach and keep the boat for their trouble.  This, I imagine, was just what they wanted.  The rest you know.”

After pronouncing these words he lost suddenly all control over himself.  He paced to and fro rapidly, till at last he broke into a run; his arms went like a windmill and his ejaculations became very much like raving.  The burden of them was that he “denied nothing, nothing!” I could only let him go on, and sat out of his way, repeating, “Calmez vous, calmez vous,” at intervals, till his agitation exhausted itself.

I must confess, too, that I remained there long after he had crawled under his mosquito-net.  He had entreated me not to leave him; so, as one sits up with a nervous child, I sat up with him—­in the name of humanity—­till he fell asleep.

On the whole, my idea is that he was much more of an anarchist than he confessed to me or to himself; and that, the special features of his case apart, he was very much like many other anarchists.  Warm heart and weak head—­that is the word of the riddle; and it is a fact that the bitterest contradictions and the deadliest conflicts of the world are carried on in every individual breast capable of feeling and passion.

From personal inquiry I can vouch that the story of the convict mutiny was in every particular as stated by him.