“Because we should run straight on to the Island of Rion.”
“You shall pass it by twenty fathoms.”
“Take the helm, and let us see what you know.”
The young man took the helm, felt to see if the vessel answered the rudder promptly and seeing that, without being a first-rate sailer, she yet was tolerably obedient.
“To the sheets,” said he. The four seamen, who composed the crew, obeyed, while the pilot looked on. “Haul taut.”
They obeyed.
“Belay.” This order was also executed; and the vessel passed, as Dantès had predicted, twenty fathoms to windward.
“Bravo!” said the captain.
“Bravo!” repeated the sailors. And they all looked with astonishment at this man whose eye now disclosed an intelligence and his body a vigor they had not thought him capable of showing.
“You see,” said Dantès, quitting the helm, “I shall be of some use to you, at least during the voyage. If you do not want me at Leghorn, you can leave me there, and I will pay you out of the first wages I get, for my food and the clothes you lend me.”
“Ah,” said the captain, “we can agree very well, if you are reasonable.”
“Give me what you give the others, and it will be all right,” returned Dantès.
“That’s not fair,” said the seaman who had saved Dantès; “for you know more than we do.”