PREFACE

Having spread myself discursively in four books dealing with the naval aspect of many things; videlicet and to wit:

of Shoes; especially of Pusser's Crabs, footwear of the British Matlow in all climes; of sea-boots, which may be taken up On Loan, and with a certain amount of tact and discretion may be attracted into the orbit of personal and private gear; and of Uniform Boots, plain-fronted and without toe-caps, the mark of the correctly-garbed Naval Officer, distinguishing the pukka navy man not seldom from his temporary brother who is apt to be known by his Feet of Clay, i.e. a pair of Plain-clothes boots with patterns punched in holes all over their bows:

and Ships; treating of them according to their various classes and according to their many kinds of work in the Great War:

and Sealing-wax; also of Red Tape, and other such weapons of officialdom; how they vex the souls of bluff happy-go-lucky sailormen; how they can be parried and evaded by guile and experience; and how the command to Give Reasons In Writing must be correctly met by the soft answer that turneth away wrath, beginning with I Have The Honour To Submit and finishing with the additional Honour—(really, it is a wonder that the humble delinquent can bear the weight of so many honours!)—of Being Your Obedient Servant:

of Cabbages; and other succulent produce of the kitchen garden, sent by the very kindest of Committees to the men of the Grand Fleet month after month, a welcome change from the official spud. Also of other cabbages, grown by optimistic and energetic and enthusiastic Naval Officers in extemporised gardens upon the islands of Flotta and Fara:

and Kings, and notably of our own most gracious sovereign Liege Lord, and his visits to the Fleet where he was welcomed indeed as King, but doubly and trebly welcomed as being himself a Navy man.

—Having, I say, discoursed of these and similar matters in certain volumes which both the general public and the reviewers have received with very great kindness—though a friend of mine did say to me, "whenever I find that I can't go to sleep I just take up one of your books and read a chapter, and then I soon drop off"; and I am left guessing to this very day whether or not he meant it as a compliment—having, I repeat, written these four books of essays and sketches (this sentence is really going to close now) it occurred to me that it would be a great relief to myself, if not to my readers, if I were to write a story.

A Naval story, of course. I quite understand that I must confine myself to my own sphere and not try to write about people and things I didn't know—though I believe there have been story-writers who have been known to do such a thing.

Well, it sounds easy enough, to write a Naval story. But it is the very dickens of a job when you actually settle down to do it; and I'll tell you why.

First, because most of the fashionable methods of treatment, applicable readily enough to shore-going stories, do not fit in at all well with a nautical atmosphere.

For example, there is the method which may be described politely as the Biological—and impolitely as, well, choose your own word for it, please. Books of this kind generally contain a Triangle and a Problem, like Euclid; but with this exception they do not at all resemble him.

Even with the worst intentions, however, it would be almost impossible to conform to this method, because the Navy is not Bisexual: unless you count the Wrens; and these, unfortunately—or is it fortunately?—are not allowed to go to sea; and anyhow, the Wrens deserve a story all to themselves, and it should be written in letters of gold.

Then there is another favourite story-form, in which you are told at great length how John Smith, of Yorkshire or the Midlands, cooms doon fro' th' hoose to th' works i' th' morning and fares back fro' th' works to th' hoose at neet, and does this for twenty-odd years without any more exciting incident than taking tea on one occasion wi' a neebour; and that's all there is to it.

Here again, the method appears scarcely thrilling enough for a sea story, and I'm quite sure you wouldn't really like it.

Or there is that other method, greatly affected by certain writers, of describing minutely the hero's daily doings from the moment of his birth, through his childhood, youth, adolescence, and early manhood, until—until you feel that you really couldn't stick another page of him!

That is all very well in its way; but the lives of all naval officers are really so very much alike in most details that if I were to attempt this sort of writing I might get myself into serious trouble with the very senior officers, who would want to know why I had dug up their past in this barefaced manner!

And that reminds me; in my last book, "The Curtain of Steel," I took particular pains to insist, in the preface, that there were no portraits amongst the characters therein depicted; there was, I stated only one part-exception to this—I had drawn from life in one sole instance; "and that," said I, "was the face of a good man." Well in due course I had a letter from one of my late messmates, which said, "when we read the preface and saw it stated that there was one portrait, the face of a good man, everyone blushed self-consciously." It just shows how hard it is to ram an idea into some people, doesn't it?

Anyhow, at the risk of being again disbelieved or misunderstood, I beg to repeat the statement in reference to this present book that THERE ARE NO PORTRAITS IN IT.

But, to go back to the difficulties of writing a sea story. The second of these is that there is always Captain Marryat to contend with.

I mean that this splendid old fellow has set the pace so rapidly that any modern weakling who endeavours to follow lamely in his footsteps will not be considered to be giving his readers their money's worth unless he provides a fight with cannons and cutlasses, or some hairbreadth escape, on every other page.

Now, naval warfare up to date has been proved to be somewhat monotonously free from stirring incidents. Marryat would probably have used up the whole of this war's sea-fighting in one book, or in two at most. There have been plenty of actions with the enemy, of course, and very thrilling ones; but they have been so equally distributed amongst the various units of the Navy that it would be an impossibility to make a hero participate in a sufficient number to enable one to make a whole volume out of him.

So the only thing to do was to take an incident—or rather, in this case, to invent one—and with it fill up the two hours' traffic of a book. The incident had of course to be of the real old-fashioned cut-and-thrust order; nobody wants analytical and psychological character drawing in a naval story. The play's the thing—and, after all, in spite of the people who scorn to introduce into their books anything so utterly démodé as a plot, and even sniff at the vulgarity of mere incidents, there is something to be said for a yarn which does not profess to be anything more than a yarn with no more purpose than that of wiling away an idle hour or two.

I like writing prefaces. I don't know if you like reading them. Do you mind if I go on with this one for a bit?

I know I shall get into hot water about Patrick Sheridan's dialect. Once upon a time I wrote a little story in which I made an Irishman say:

Begobs; it was, perhaps, a weak thing to do, but really I meant no harm. Well, an Irish correspondent wrote at once to the paper, very indignantly, to protest against my putting that expression into the mouth of one of his compatriots. And it appears that something of this sort nearly always happens when anyone attempts to reproduce a so-called Irish dialect, and especially when he reproduces it very badly—as I admit I do.

This is very strange; one may with impunity write in that peculiar and well-known Loamshire dialect which is nowhere found but in the English novel or on the English stage—and no Englishman ever thinks of grumbling; he is, indeed, rather amused, though generally still more bored. But if one dares to make an Irishman say "fwhat" for "what," or "whoy" for "why"—well, it is treated as just one more injustice to Ireland!

Yet, what can one do? There are conventions to be observed and these are maintained because they are not only conventions but conveniences; and just as you have a stage Irishman whom you can recognise at once by his knee-breeches, flower-pot hat, and little black dudheen, so you have also the book-Irishman who is labelled as such by a few unmistakable turns of speech. It makes no difference that the stage-Irishman and the book-Irishman are never seen and never have been seen in real life. Their peculiarities are simply labels, like those which the Elizabethans used to stick up on their back-cloths to say "This is a castle"; it wasn't in the remotest degree like a castle, but everyone knew what was meant.

And, of course, even the most scrupulously careful effort to reproduce dialect phonetically in print is bound to be a lamentable failure. Many people will probably be surprised to be told that the function of the written or printed word is primarily to record ideas, and only secondarily—if at all—to record sounds. Certainly, our own English alphabet, with its ridiculously inadequate complement of twenty-six letters, is hopelessly unfitted to do the work of a gramophone; the thing would be impossible, really, were the alphabet ten times as big. And that is why the very greatest writers, such as Dickens, never seriously attempt to reduce to writing every word of their dialect-characters in the exact form implied, but content themselves with inserting a dialect-word here and there, thus avoiding a form of writing which would be an intolerable labour to the reader, while sufficiently indicating that the curiosities of speech are to be understood throughout. It is not necessary to place milestones at every yard of the road.

I hope it is not necessary also for me to apologise for this same Patrick Sheridan being a thorough Bad Hat. If you can't employ a Villain in a story, what can you do? It does not necessarily follow that the villain is taken as a type of his whole race and nation; and in this present case I positively disavow any such intention; so be it known to all men by these presents.

Oh yes, there is one thing more. When I announced, in the sanctity of the home circle, my determination to write a story, the Critic on the Hearth—the junior one—said, "Well, mind you don't write anything about girls and Love; 'cause you can't do it!"

Did you ever hear of such a thing? Of course, no man could take a dare like that; and, besides, what would a naval story be like if it didn't contain something about both of these subjects? A wishy-washy affair! Try and imagine Jack without his Faithful Poll! The thing simply can't be done. So there just had to be Girls and Love in it. But whether I have given satisfaction or not must remain unknown until the aforesaid Critic on the Hearth reads the attempt in cold print; and then it will be too late to complain.

Naval readers will be certain to note a few inaccuracies in the description of a "Court of Iniquity" at the end of the book.

But that is because...

And I am confident that this will be recognised as an adequate explanation.

And now, having as I hope disarmed criticism all round beforehand—a wise precaution to take, and one which I trust will be justified by results—perhaps I had better go ahead with the yarn.

H.M.S. Vivid,
1919.

In Peril on the Sea

CHAPTER I

It is cold, very cold, up on the bridge of the solitary cruiser.

The chilling mist which has been gathering over the face of the still waters all the afternoon now thickens and banks up into a dense white fog as the short October evening closes swiftly in.

An anxious time indeed for those on the bridge; a fog is more to be dreaded than the heaviest gale. Not half so dangerous is the sea when its lashing waves sweep the ship's decks as when it lies treacherously calm, leaden and lifeless, beneath the impenetrable shroud of the white sea-mist.

Yet the grim irony of War can make even this axiom suffer a sea-change: if any testimony were needed to the stern reality of naval life in war time it could be found in this, that even the hated sea-fog may have its welcome side.

One danger drives out another. If the fog blinds the eyes of the look-out men, it also blankets the periscope of any lurking hostile submarine.

So the Marathon slows down to ten knots: and presently to seven. The escorting destroyers, one on either bow, can no longer be seen; they can only be heard by the mournful ringing of the fog-bell at one minute intervals, the sound coming muffled and diminished across the veiled waters.

The navigating bridge, which is the highest platform of a complex structure built around the foremast, forms a little world of its own, poised between sea and sky and isolated from that other little world of the ship far beneath.

The occupants of this island in mid-air are few—to be exact, just four men; two bluejacket look-out men, the officer of the watch, and the navigator.

Of these, the look-out men have nothing to do just at present, for the simple reason that they cannot see even as far as the bows; the officer of the watch also finds his position a sinecure, since the ship is on a steady course and he has not even an order to call down the voice-pipe to the bridge beneath, where the quartermaster stands by the side of the able seaman at the wheel.

The navigating officer alone of the four finds something to occupy his time. He is standing at a tiny chart table with a hinged glass cover which, when raised, acts as a wind screen. Here he bends over his chart and makes many calculations in silence, as he has in fact been doing for the past half-hour.

Stapleton, the officer of the watch, finds the proceedings distinctly uninteresting. He has had no one to speak to and practically nothing to do ever since he came on watch. The cold strikes through his thick duffel coat, and even his heavy sea-boots and the woollen stockings drawn well up over his knees outside his trousers are a poor protection in this raw weather.

Pulling down the wrist of his gauntlet he glances at his watch in the fading light, and notes with satisfaction that it is close on six o'clock. In a very few minutes he will be able to leave the bridge and go below.

But in reality he does not mind either the cold or the tedium of watch-keeping. He is far too keen for that. Every line of his tall, strong-knit figure and of his somewhat hatchet-like face spells keenness. And if proof of this were wanted, there is the fact that there is no need at all for him to be keeping watch; as first lieutenant and executive officer of the ship watch-keeping forms no part of his regular duties; yet he has undertaken to keep a standing first dog, to relieve the other watchkeepers and to keep things in this department up to the high-water mark of smartness and efficiency.

That is his way.

Now that his self-imposed task is nearly over he steps forward to the navigating officer at the chart table, and says:

"I'm away below in a moment, Navvy. What about it? It's beastly thick—do you think we ought to give the Owner a call?"

The navigator looks up from his work and peers into the fog-bank. "Well, I shouldn't—not yet," he answers. "The old man is having a doss in his sea-cabin—he'll be up all through the night, probably. I shall be here for a bit myself, and I'll call him if necessary. But I think the fog may lift presently. It seems to me to be more patchy than it was. Shouldn't be surprised if it were only local, and if so we may run out of it before long."

"All right, old man, if you think so." And with a nod he turns away, as Morley, the lieutenant who is to keep the last dog, appears coming up the ladder on the very stroke of four bells. Relieving the bridge strictly up to time is a virtue of the Marathon, thanks to the first lieutenant, who won't countenance any slackness in this respect, and sets a good example himself. With a few rapid words technical phrases and seaman's language he "turns over" to Morley; and then, relapsing into everyday phraseology, he callously bids that young officer "Don't let yourself get over-heated—and beware of being led away into idle gossiping by that garrulous navigator." And with a laugh he rattles down the ladder and makes his way to the wardroom.

The half dozen officers whom he finds assembled in that very warm and cosy room he greets with:

"Phew, what a cheery old fug!" and it certainly is a very different atmosphere from that of the navigating bridge. As for being cheery, the blazing fire and the glow of the electric lights beneath their shades of yellow silk make the wardroom a very pleasant place indeed.

Stapleton peels off his thick duffel coat and sheds some of his other trappings, then flings himself into a comfortable arm-chair near the fire and announces to the mess in general that he is not too proud to accept a drink from anyone. As, however, this hint meets with no acceptance, he is constrained to summon the waiter himself and to make the necessary arrangements.

"What's it like up topside?" queries Dale, the surgeon, looking up from the card-table where he is playing bridge with the fleet-paymaster, the senior engineer-lieutenant, and one of the watchkeepers.

"Pretty thick. But I think it's beginning to clear a little."

"Well," remarks the engineer-lieutenant. "I hope so, anyway. I don't much care for crawling along at this speed. Hallo! what's that?"—his attentive ear has caught the sound of a bell in the engine-room ringing a quick succession of sharp strokes. "Slowing down again? What's that for, I wonder?"

He looks puzzled; and with a brief excuse to the others at the card table makes off to go below, where he feels he may be wanted.

But the reason for slackening speed is not for long a mystery. A messenger from the bridge, a smart young signalman, enters and approaches the recumbent first lieutenant, and presents a signal-pad. The first lieutenant takes it carelessly and reads aloud:

"Floating object, apparently mine, on surface bearing right ahead of you. Hm, cheerful prospect, isn't it?"

"Who's that from, Number One?" enquires the fleet-paymaster.

"From one of our destroyers. I suppose we are slowing down to touch it off. Well, it isn't in my line. Someone else can attend to that business, I'm not going to disturb myself for that—all right, signalman. Guns, this seems to be more in your line than mine."

The gunnery-lieutenant who has been, chuckling quietly to himself over a novel, has in fact already pricked up his ears at the mention of something relating to his own beloved artillery; and elated at the prospect of firing one of his guns, if only at a floating mine, he flings down his novel and strides off to make for the upper deck.

There is a mild excitement amongst those in the wardroom who have not followed him up on deck to watch the proceedings. Someone remarks with contemptuous disgust on the flagrant disregard for the ways of civilisation which has prompted the Hun to scatter his floating mines broadcast on the ocean in defiance of all international law. But the remark is made with little fervour and scarcely any bitterness—the Hun has multiplied his diabolical deeds in so many other undreamt of directions that such a trifle as this has long ago ceased to seem a thing to be wondered at.

The young watchkeeper at the bridge-table treats the matter facetiously. "Dashed bad luck, I call it," he grumbles; "if only those silly signalmen weren't so darned officious, we might have had the joss to bump the thing! A nice little hole in the for'ard compartments or a broken stem-piece ought to be good for a couple of months in dock, and then we might all of us have wangled a nice drop of leave!"

Stapleton rounds upon him in a tone of affected horror, "What! you mutinous, unpatriotic, selfish young anarchist! The Marathon is to get blown up just to give you a month's holiday? Well I'm ... no, words fail me!"

He laughs, but there is a certain seriousness in his voice which is not all affected. The very idea of any disaster happening to the Marathon—except in battle with the enemy, which would be the fortune of war and a very different matter altogether—is something which he does not care to contemplate. Not without the envy of half the other two-and-a-half stripers of his seniority did he achieve the coveted appointment of first lieutenant to the Marathon, the very latest thing in light cruisers. Only two sister-ships, the Salamis and the Thermopylæ, were in commission at the time when Stapleton was appointed; and there was more competition to go to one of this Greeko class, as the Navy affectionately termed them, than there was for ships of the most powerful battle-squadron; such was the reputation of these marvellous little cruisers, in which speed, armament and armour combined to form something nearly approaching a naval constructor's dream.

Surgeon Dale looks up presently from the table where he has been holding a post-mortem on the last hand in the temporary absence of his partner.

"Guns is a long time downing that mine," he remarks; "What's the delay, I wonder?"

Stapleton awakens at this remark to the realisation that he has been lost in a reverie about his beloved ship, and that the double explosion of gun and mine which might reasonably have been expected for some minutes past has, as a matter of fact, not been heard at all.

He too looks up wonderingly. And, as if in answer to his unspoken query, the skylight overhead is at that moment lifted and the face appears of an excited officer who calls down into the wardroom.

"I say, it isn't a mine at all—it's a boat! A drifting boat. With people in it. Shipwrecked. We're stopping to pick them up!"

CHAPTER II

There is a rush to look out of the wardroom scuttles, everyone being eager with curiosity to see the new and unexpected sight.

At first there is nothing to be seen from the wardroom except the unruffled surface of the sea, still veiled in the white mist.

But when the cruiser, gradually losing way, turns to port before finally stopping, a boat comes into view on the starboard bow and soon is right on the beam, still some little distance away.

Overhead, the sea-boat's crew are already clambering over the netting into the cutter swung outboard at the davits, and the falls are manned. Quickly the boat is lowered, and as soon as she touches the water her crew have got their oars out and are pulling away rapidly in the direction of the derelict boat.

Such a forlorn object it looks, there on the friendless sea, alone and helpless. She is just drifting at the mercy of the wind and the current; there is no sail hoisted, and no attempt at getting the oars out to pull. What use, indeed, so far from any shore?

Even at this distance it can be seen that the occupants of the drifting boat are but three. This also explains why they have accepted the inevitable and resigned themselves to their fate without endeavouring to save themselves. How could three people hope to pull a heavy life-boat?

And what is more—yes, why surely! Now that one of those at the wardroom scuttles gifted with sharper eyes than the rest points out the fact the others also are able to see that he has made no mistake—two out of the three in the boat are women!

At this discovery the wardroom is cleared at once and everybody makes a bee-line for the upper deck.

The first lieutenant has already gone, some time ago. A mere floating mine is none of his business and fails to interest him, but a derelict boat with people to be picked up is a very different matter. This is his business, and no sooner is the first announcement made than he is away on deck to take charge of things.

From the quarter deck of the cruiser the officers grouped at the ship's side all with binoculars or telescopes levelled on the two boats see the cutter approach the derelict and take her in tow. In a moment more the boat's crew are pulling swiftly back to the ship.

The first lieutenant gives a brief order, and a couple of hands overhaul the gangway falls and lower the ladder to the water's edge. When it is made fast he descends and stands on the little platform at the bottom, with the surgeon at his side. The latter has already given directions to his staff in the sick bay to have everything in readiness that may be required in the way of restoratives for the strangers.

The cutter comes near, and deftly casts off the tow at the exact moment so as to allow the lifeboat to come alongside the gangway at the time when her way has practically stopped.

The first lieutenant is waiting with outstretched hand to fend off the boat, and to catch the painter, giving this a swift turn round the stanchion of the gangway so as to bring the boat to a complete standstill.

Then he jumps in quickly, followed by Dale, and the two of them assist the women out of the boat and up to the cruiser's deck. The man of the shipwrecked party requires no help. Without a word he follows in the wake of the others with so erect a figure and so firm a stride that it is evident he has suffered no great harm from his exposure.

But the two women are in much worse case than he. They are both quite young, young enough almost to be the man's daughters, though this is scarcely probable since they are so unlike him—and indeed so unlike each other also, one being tall and dark, the other of medium height and fair.

The latter, who is the younger of the two girls, is almost in a state of collapse, and Dale has to take her into his arms and carry her up the gangway. The dark one merely supports herself on Stapleton's arm, and with unsteady steps makes her way to the cruiser's deck.

Here Captain Blake is waiting to receive them, and does so with a few kindly words of welcome—a very few, because he is far too sensible to spend time in useless talk at such a moment.

"Better take them down to the wardroom, Stapleton," he advises—"that is, if you fellows won't mind. There's no fire in my cabin aft. I'll have it lighted though, and they can go there presently. Meanwhile, I'm sure you won't object to being the hosts instead of myself."

Object to it? Why the officers of the Marathon cannot do enough for their poor guests. In a moment they have taken complete charge of them, and having got them down below are fussing over them in a crowd, all eagerly trying to do something that may add to the comfort of the unfortunate people. The young marine officer stokes up the fire and piles on coal to make a blazing glow, the fleet-paymaster pushes forward armchairs in a half-circle around the stove, the engineer-lieutenant and a brace of watchkeepers are bustling round to procure food and drink, and have impressed into their service the whole body of marine servants and wine stewards. Another officer has dashed off to his cabin and returned with an armful of blankets, and yet another, having summoned the wardroom messenger, is loudly impressing on that stolid youth an order to go to the galley and tell the cook to have lots of hot water ready—though exactly what he wants with hot water is not precisely clear. Hovering around these and getting in their way is a little knot of other officers of various ranks and ages who are anxious to help but cannot quite make up their minds as to the particular capacity in which they can best make themselves useful.

The doctor bundles most of them out of the room, telling them in terms more candid than polite that they are clucking around like a lot of old hens and would they be good enough to run away and play somewhere else, as they are only in the way here.

As the doctor is an autocrat under present conditions he gains his ends without any demur; but relents to the extent of permitting four or five of the more senior officers to remain and give their assistance.

Stapleton takes it for granted that he is one of these who are to stay. It is to be feared that he is not actuated simply by an altruistic desire to aid suffering humanity; there is more than a suspicion that he finds an irresistible attraction in the beautiful dark girl—at any rate, he hovers around her with every possible offer of assistance rather to the neglect of the other, whom he leaves to the tender mercies of Surgeon Dale. As for the man of the shipwrecked party he sits apart, surrounded and ministered to by those officers who are a little shy of attending on the ladies.

Possibly their shyness is accentuated by the fact that the attire of the said ladies is decidedly scanty. It is evident that they must have been surprised by whatever mischance had befallen them at a time when they were asleep in their cabins, for their garments bear witness to a hurried departure.

The older of the two girls, the dark one, has simply thrown on a heavy wadded silk kimono over her robe de nuit, and has thrust her dainty feet into a pair of dancing slippers. The other girl, presumably refusing to leave the ship till the last possible moment—one can almost hear her companion calling to her and urging her to make haste before it is too late—has put on boots and stockings and a skirt, with a long fur coat over all; poor enough protection, even this, for hours in an open boat! The man is in shirt and trousers, and he also appears to have found time to put on his boots without worrying about stockings.

Such is the garb in which the three make their appearance on board the Marathon; but the blankets collected by the thoughtful young lieutenant who went off to ransack his cabin have been called into immediate requisition and put to good purpose; and certain other gear has been turned out and put to daintier use than that for which it was originally meant; who would have dreamt, for instance, that a pair of Stapleton's football stockings would ever be graced by such a pretty pair of limbs as are encased in them now?

CHAPTER III

Captain Blake also remains in the wardroom, and endeavours to put the unfortunate people at ease by getting them to talk calmly of their misadventure.

At first he is somewhat unsuccessful, the girls, at least, are seemingly so frightened and collapsed that they can hardly get beyond a few disjointed sentences and much sobbing. But Captain Blake keeps manfully at his task and feigns to take no notice of their whispered hesitations.

"That's better," he says cheerfully, as he stirs the fire to a still fiercer blaze. "Poor things, how cold you must be! How long did you say you were adrift in that boat?" As a matter of fact they had not said anything about it, but Captain Blake ignores this detail.

"Since about five o'clock this morning. Our ship was torpedoed just a few minutes before the hour."

The dark girl has suddenly found her voice. And a beautiful voice it is in which she makes this clear sharp statement; a rich, full contralto, with just a sweet suspicion of an Irish brogue about it.

Stapleton turns his eyes wonderingly on her as she speaks. Is it possible to fall in love with a voice? If so, then this is just the sort of voice to make such an act excusable.

"Over twelve hours, and in this bitter weather!" exclaims the Captain. "I wonder you are alive! And was no one saved but you three? But—stupid of me—of course, you can tell us all about that later." Then, turning to the man of the party, who persists in remaining apart from the others—"Do pull over your chair, my dear sir, you must be——"

"Thank ye, I'm all right," comes the rather ungracious answer. "Ye need not mind me, if ye'll look after the two girls. It's perished with the cold they are. For myself, I want nothing."

Stapleton bends his head towards Dale and says in an undertone, "Seems a surly kind of chap, doesn't he?" But the doctor does not reply: he looks from one to the other of the shipwrecked passengers and shakes his head mysteriously.

At this moment there is an opportune interruption, as a small army of waiters and stewards file into the room with all manner of preparations for refreshing the inner man. One would think from the number of dishes and decanters that there was a whole shipwrecked crew waiting to be fed instead of only three people!

However, it is a very welcome sight and there is much bustling about to seize the most tempting articles of food and drink and offer them to the famished guests.

Dale, knowing well what will be the most useful as a preliminary, seizes brandy and hot water, and insists upon his patients taking some immediately. He himself holds the glass to the lips of the younger girl, who is by far the most fainting of them all.

"Oh please, please," she stammers, turning her head away, and pushing the glass aside, "I—I can't. Oh, I'm so frightened! This is a terrible business!"

"Come, come, that's all right. Drink this and you will feel better. There's no need to worry over anything now. It's all over, you know!"

"Oh, but it isn't! I'm—oh dear, oh dear!" More sobbing. Dale is rather taken aback, but still keeps gently insisting till finally he succeeds in making the girl swallow a little of the brandy. The Captain, who cannot stand a woman's tears, murmurs something apologetic and altogether unintelligible and makes a bolt from the room.

Stapleton meanwhile has had better success with the other girl. Confronted with the same tearful hesitation he adopts different methods.

"Yes, yes, I know you don't like it, and all that sort of thing," he says banteringly, "but just swallow it down like a good child and you shall have a bun and an orange and go to the pantomime. Don't think about it—think of something else; good speech that of Lloyd George the other day, wasn't it? Been to any of the new revues lately? There—that's done it! You'll feel quite yourself again presently. Pardon my drastic methods, won't you?"

The girl is forced to smile through her tears. "Oh, thank you, thank you, you are very good! How can you be so kind to us? Oh, if only you——"

"Norah!——"

It is the man who has uttered this sharp cry which rings loud above the buzz of talk and the noise of the busy waiters, and creates a sudden silence in the room.

Stapleton and Dale turn quickly towards the man. The surgeon is so startled that he drops the glass from his hand, and it shivers upon the hard deck with a tinkling crash.

"Ah," says the man, "'tis my nerves are on the stretch!" Apparently he is explaining and apologising for his startled exclamation. "And small wonder! From seven o'clock this morning in an open boat—an' then to see our ship go down before our very eyes! 'Twas a German submarine, sir—a deliberate attack without warning! Would you believe, now, that they would do such a dirty trick? A helpless passenger ship, with women and little children on board of her! And never a chance for anyone to get clear of the vessel before they attacked her! Ah, 'twas a cruel deed—foul shame to them!"

"You're right, sir," remarks Dale, briefly, and turns away again, content to leave the man to the fleet-paymaster and the engineer-commander who are quite capable, he thinks, of looking after him. And, moreover, the young surgeon does not take kindly to the man. There was something a little uncalled for, as it seems, to him, in that long-winded tirade following on that cry of "Norah!"

What was the meaning of his calling out in that fashion? After all, there was no explanation of it in the rapid stream of words that followed. And—yes, Dale was sure of it—there had certainly been a note of warning in the man's voice.

But why? Well, it was not worth wondering about and the surgeon's mind quickly turns to other matters.

As for Stapleton, he is glad to learn in this unexpected way the name of the beautiful dark lady in distress.

"Norah," he repeats quickly to himself—"Norah! And a very pretty name, too. Yes, it suits her; Norah."

The last "Norah" comes from his lips a little louder than he had intended in trying the sound of it to himself. The owner of the name catches the sound of it and smiles a little, guessing what is in his mind.

"Yes, that is my name," she says, "Norah Sheridan. I ought to have told you before. And these are my cousins with whom I am travelling, Netta and Patrick Sheridan."

"It was a dangerous business crossing the seas at such a time," observes Dale. "You haven't told us yet where you were coming from?"

"From America," hesitatingly answers the younger girl, noting that the question is addressed to her.

"From what part?"

"From—where was it, Norah?"

"From Galveston in Texas. We were bound for Hull, taking the route around the North of Scotland."

"And you were almost safe in port!" exclaims Stapleton. "That was rough luck! I suppose you were just congratulating yourselves on being pretty safe, after having escaped danger for—how many days had you been at sea?"

"I don't remember," stammers Netta, and again appeals to her cousin: "How many days was it, Norah?"

"Eight. Our escape was a most miraculous one. I don't believe there were any other survivors. I saw boat after boat swamped as they tried to get clear of the ship!"

A pretty cool young woman this, thinks Surgeon Dale, as he listens to her crisp, concise statement. Certainly she puts things in a very matter of fact way!

On Stapleton, however, the effect of the girl's words is very different. He is roused to a white rage.

"Those swine, those murdering devils!" he cries, clenching his fists and flashing fire from his keen blue eyes—"and to think they have the insolence to call themselves sailors! Making war against defenceless passenger ships!"

His anger quickly cools, as he continues reflectingly.

"Now, to torpedo a ship like this, a pukka man-of-war, that would only be fair game. If we should happen to get blown to blazes, we shouldn't have any cause for——"

With a stifled scream Netta breaks in, "Oh don't—don't! Horrible—horrible!"

"Shut up, you silly ass," Dale admonishes him. "Don't you see the poor girl has had about as much as she can stand for one day? Just let her stay quiet and rest a while."

"Of course! What a fool I was! I am sorry—I ought to have had more sense than to upset you like that. Please forgive me, and just remember you are perfectly safe on board the old Marathon. Say what you want—everything in the ship is entirely at your disposal, and every man of us too!"

"Yes, I know you are," comes the steady reply in Norah's beautiful contralto.

"Oh, Norah, how can you?" In some unexplained manner the simple words has had the result of upsetting her tremulous cousin once more, for the poor girl breaks again into a fit of uncontrollable sobbing.

"'Poor little girl!" Stapleton murmurs; and feeling that something more than the rough touch of a man's sympathy is required to soothe those jangled nerves, appeals to her cousin.

"Can't you say something to quiet her? Tell her it's all right now, and there's not the least danger—and if there were, there are four hundred good men on board who would gladly give up their lives to save yours." And he adds in a louder tone:

"As for me, if I had a hundred lives they should all be yours, if you wanted them!"

The words are not spoken so low but that Norah hears them. And there is no mistaking the fact that they are meant in all seriousness. Has the man fallen in love with her, then? Is this a case of that proverbial gallantry of the typical naval officer—or is it something deeper than that?

Be it what it may, the effect upon her is to say the least of it unexpected. She is neither melted into softness at the impassioned words, nor on the other hand does she seem offended. Only she sets her lips firmly, and for a moment a look as of a fixed resolve, a fierce determination, comes into her eyes. And she answers never a word.

CHAPTER IV

Captain Blake, driven from the wardroom by a woman's sobbing, has not allowed his sentimental nature to interfere with his proper duties. Had he been that sort of man he would not have been given command of the Marathon at the age of forty-two. One of the very smartest and most efficient of the junior captains he has made his way up the ladder without interest simply by his own abilities, and especially by his oft proved readiness to do the right thing in an emergency.

On this particular occasion perhaps no very great genius is required to cope with the situation; but he has dealt with it in the quickest and most effectual way, as is shown when he presently comes again into the wardroom and announces:

"I hope you haven't been thinking that I've neglected you? But I knew that I had left you in good hands and you would be well looked after. Meanwhile, I've been calling up by wireless one of our destroyer escort, and I propose to send you back to the shore in her. Ah, that's the reply I expect"—as a signalman enters and holds up before him a signal pad with a written message on it—"Yes, that's all right. She'll be alongside soon, and we'll have you all quite safe on shore before very long."

"We did not expect to get away so soon, sir," says the dour Sheridan. Surgeon Dale, who prides himself on being a keen observer, thinks he detects a certain note of disappointment in the words.

"Well," says the captain, who also notices something of the same sort but interprets it in a different sense, "I'm afraid it is the best I can do, under the circumstances. Naturally, you would prefer to wait and be landed at some civilised spot, but we unfortunately are not cruising to any such destination. And I can't let the destroyer be away from us too long—she must return again during the night. But you shall be landed at our own base, and you can go south from there in a day or two. Will that suit you, do you think?"

Sheridan has been listening very intently to the captain's words, and it is quite noticeable that he tries to control an ill-pleased expression. Though what on earth he can find to be annoyed about in such a kind offer is hard to imagine. Moreover, the same tone of chagrin creeps involuntarily into his voice as he replies with brief courtesy:

"Thank you, sir; the arrangements will suit us admirably."

Under cover of the captain's presence, and taking advantage of his timely monopoly of the conversation, Stapleton has beguiled his lady fair into the farthest corner of the wardroom, where a hanging curtain makes a little alcove so that they are shut off from the others, at least, as far as this is possible in a small cruiser's wardroom.

The pretext under which he executes this manœuvre is that he wishes to show her a picture of the ship hanging there, and will be charmed if she will allow him to send her a copy of it later on as a memento of her short visit. But strangely enough he forgets all about this as soon as they are alone together, and apparently finds plenty to say to her on some other subject. For he seats her in a cosy wicker chair and, drawing over another for himself bends towards her and talks earnestly in an undertone. Very earnestly indeed.

"And now, sir," continues the captain, "if you feel fit to do so, I should be glad if you would come along to my cabin and let me take down your report of this distressing affair. I expect the destroyer will be here, ready to take you back, in about twenty minutes."

Stapleton, overhearing him, remarks quietly, "Oh, damn!—that is, I beg your pardon, I meant 'oh, bother!'"

"But why do you say that?" asks Norah Sheridan suppressing a smile.

"Because it means that you will have to go away, just as I—oh, dash it all—why, I may never see you again!"

"I think that is more than likely." Again that hard resolute expression in the girl's eyes.

"But I—I want to see you again! Oh, I say, I do wish you hadn't got to go so soon! But, look here, you will let me see you again some time, won't you? Tell me where I can come and see you."

"But how can you want that? Barely half an hour ago you did not even know of my existence!"

"That does not matter at all. The main thing is that I do know of it now. Think, how strange it is, your coming here in such a fashion! Can't you see that there is something greater than ourselves in all this? Don't you believe it is Destiny that is leading you—and me?"

"Perhaps I do believe it." Very softly comes this admission.

"Then don't attempt to fight against fate: I tell you we must meet again."

"I do not think that you will ever be able to see me, after to-day."

"No, no, don't say that! I will surely come if you will let me."

"That may be beyond my power—and yours."

"You are right—of course. I know quite well what you mean. Though we hardly ever give it a thought—or if we do, it is only to jest about it; all the same we know very well, all of us, that our country may claim our lives at any moment. Well, so be it! But, putting aside that chance, will you not let me see you again?"

"Do you really mean that you would come?"

"Mean it? Why, I would—oh, I know what it is; you are thinking that I am just an impulsive fool, the sort of impressionable idiot who loses his head over every pretty girl he sees and says all manner of things without meaning them. Well, I'm not surprised if you do think so. I've no right to expect anything else. But all the same I do not happen to be that kind of man."

"Did I say that I thought that of you?"

"No, but you looked it! Well, I don't wonder. Any girl would, I suppose. Or else you probably think I have gone mad to talk like this to you. Perhaps I have; but nevertheless, I ask you again, only tell me where I may find you, and if I live I will come to you."

"But you don't know who I am! You don't know what I am!"

"I know enough. Listen! It is quite true that up to less than an hour ago I never knew you, had never even seen you. But very great things can happen in a little time, can't they? And it is a great thing that has happened to me. I never thought to fall in love—certainly not to fall a victim to love at first sight like a moonstruck boy. I meant to live for the Service, and that was my only ambition: women never entered into my life. But now, this thing has come to me, and my only hope lies in telling you openly, in these few minutes that are left to us."

"Do you mean," says the girl, speaking very slowly and with a quite unaccountable look of something very like horror in her dilated eyes, "do you mean to tell me seriously that you have actually fallen in love with me? Is this what you are telling me?"

"It is. That, and nothing less. I can't blame you if you think I have gone suddenly out of my senses, as I daresay you do. Oh, I know—I always used to think myself, like most people, I suppose, that love at first sight was nothing more than the sort of romantic nonsense one reads about in books, and never happened in real life. Well, I daresay it doesn't occur very often; but just once in a while it must happen or else people would never have thought about such a thing. And now I have proved it is true. As soon as I saw you standing here in the light of this room I knew that there never would be any other woman in the world for me but you, and—I loved you!"

"But why—oh, why?"

"How can I tell? These things are beyond the powers of reason. If you want me to analyse my feelings, I know that I saw truth and honour and goodness gleaming like a halo around you—but this does not explain it at all, really. It is only that I love you because—because I love you!"

"But—it is impossible!"

"No, not impossible. It is true. Norah, look me in the face, and you will see that I am in earnest. Ah! give me your hands—no, you shall not deny me! Yes, you see now—you know now. And I know that if those eyes of yours do not shine for me, then I shall be for ever in the darkness!"

A low wail, as of a creature in agony, rises from the girl's lips, as she passionately tears her hands from his grasp and in a moaning voice echoes his words:

"For ever in the darkness! Oh, my God!"

"Number One, are you there? Where are you?"

Confound the fellow! Stapleton recognises the voice of assistant-paymaster Merritt; and hears also Dale telling him:

"He's in there, behind the curtain."

Stapleton had always rather liked Merritt up to the present. But at this moment he hates him, with a fierce and bitter hatred. A feeling which only grows more intense when that youth drags aside the curtain and says "Oh, sorry!" with a silly grin that closes again like an elastic band, though not without an evident effort; adding in an attempt at an official voice:

"The captain has sent me to say that he wishes you to bring Miss Norah Sheridan to his cabin so that he may complete his report; he is afraid Miss Netta is not well enough, so he will not disturb her."

"Oh, confound the captain! But where duty calls I must obey, and all that sort of thing. Miss Sheridan, may I show you the way?"

They find the wardroom empty as they go towards the door, excepting for the presence of Dale and Netta Sheridan, who are sitting very quietly. The surgeon is keeping an eye on his charge, but is not bothering her with too much talk; she is far from having recovered her strength. The other officers have quietly vanished, being of the opinion that now Sheridan has been called away by the captain they can be of very little use, and that to use a vulgar expression, their room is worth more than their company.

So, inwardly fuming at his ill-luck in being interrupted at such an inopportune moment, Stapleton leads the way to the captain's cabin.

CHAPTER V

But no sooner has the door closed on the retreating pair than Netta Sheridan, reclining languid and half-dozed on the settee, astonishes the surgeon and Merritt by suddenly springing to her feet and exclaiming:

"Oh, save her! Save us!"

Merritt, fatuous youth, once more executes his india-rubber grin, subsiding instantaneously again into seriousness, and murmurs faintly, "Gosh!"

"Oh, help me!" cries the girl again—"listen to me—I must speak!"

"Buck up—I mean pray don't be alarmed," exhorts the assistant-paymaster with a well-meaning effort to say the right thing; "you're quite all right, you know. It's all over now, you're perfectly safe!"

"Don't speak to her like that," Dale admonishes him, with a nudge of his elbow, "you're only frightening her. Miss Sheridan, there is really no cause for you to disturb yourself. Your cousin has only gone with your brother into the captain's cabin to tell him about what has occurred. She will be back in a few minutes. Please sit down again and rest."

"Oh, you don't understand—you won't understand! Listen, I beg you listen to me. I cannot bear it any longer. I thought I should be able to do it, but I can't, oh, I can't!"

"Why, what is the matter," soothingly questions the doctor. "What is it that you can't do?"

The girl answers him in a quick rush of excited speech:

"It is my brother Patrick who is at the bottom of it all. Ah, the terrible man he is, indeed! He thought of it, and he made us do it. I was always against it, but what chance had I? Norah he persuaded—but you mustn't blame her. And, oh, don't tell her I told you—and don't let him know it! I am afraid of him, I always have been. If he tells me to do a thing I have to do it; it has always been like that. I am afraid to go against him. Oh, stop him quickly, before it is too late!"

"Ah," says Merritt, shaking his head wisely. "that hot brandy! I knew it was too much for her!"

"Dry up, you ass," says Dale; and turning again to the distracted girl asks in the tone of one who wishes to humour an unbalanced patient:

"But you haven't told us yet what is wrong?"

Surely it is nothing but the delirious ravings of a mind thrown quite out of gear by suffering to which the poor girl gives vent.

"We're not shipwrecked people at all, we're only—only pretending. We have not been torpedoed—we were not in any steamer to be torpedoed; we were brought to sea by a motor launch, with the boat you found us in towing behind. We knew to half an hour what time you would be passing. Oh, I always said it was a hateful scheme—wrong, too! Is Patrick coming? Don't let him hear me—don't let him know I have been talking to you. I'm terrified of him!"

"What do you mean?" cries the puzzled surgeon.

"Patrick planned it all," goes on the girl, now thoroughly wound up and seemingly not noticing the interruption. "It was his idea entirely. He arranged everything, even to making us dress—as you saw us. It is a plot—a plot to blow up your ship!"

"Christmas!" ejaculates Merritt, his mouth wide open in astonishment.

"But it is so, I tell you," cries the girl, turning round upon the incredulous youth. "You don't know what Patrick is, or how he hates the English! We all do. Any ship would have done, but we got to know about yours, we knew just when you would be sailing. It is all planned out. Norah is to do it. she has the bomb, because Patrick thought she would have a better chance of putting it somewhere while he would be talking with the captain and making up a story about the shipwreck. It is to go off two hours after it is set. Oh, we knew you would find some means of putting us on shore—though Patrick and Norah both said they were ready to take their chance of that! Oh, I cannot stand it any longer! I cannot allow it to be done! Quickly! Patrick is with your captain at this very moment. Find Norah and stop her!"

The torrent of wild words that has fallen from the girl's lips suddenly ceases and leaves her exhausted and collapsed. She reels, and would fall fainting but for Dale catching her in his strong arms and lowering her gently to the settee.

"Well, I'm blest!" exclaims the assistant paymaster. "Rum yarn that! Why, the poor girl must have gone completely off her rocker!"

"And so would you," Dale remarks, "if you had been shipwrecked and tossed about in an open boat all day like she has! Her nerves are a little overstrained, that's all. She will forget all about this in a few days, most likely. Bear a hand, and we'll carry her into my cabin and let her lie down quietly for a while till the destroyer comes. It's too stuffy in here, enough to upset anybody!"

"Yes, it is pretty frowsty. No wonder, with such a fire blazing. And on the top of the hot brandy, too!" So saying, Merritt helps the doctor to support the unconscious girl, and between them they bear off their burden to the cooler atmosphere of the surgeon's cabin.

Needless to say, Dale gives no more credence to the poor girl's ravings than Merritt. He knows, from his professional experience, how an overstrung imagination can invent the most circumstantial story and garnish it with a wealth of petty details to give it an air of truth, insomuch that one would be almost inclined to believe it, were it not for the fact that the story thus elaborated is usually wildly improbable to start with. Strange indeed are the tricks that the mind can play, under the influence of suggestion, even auto-suggestion.

Dale can remember, from his own experience, a dozen cases no less curious than this. There is nothing wonderful or unusual about it, to his trained mind. And as he has a practical task in front of him, he quickly dismisses all thoughts concerning the vapourings of the poor girl's disordered brain.

CHAPTER VI

Having concluded their interview with the captain in his cabin and given him a full account of everything connected with their terrible misadventure, Patrick Sheridan and his cousin Norah make their way back to the wardroom together with Stapleton. He, poor fellow, has been pacing impatiently up and down the flat outside the captain's cabin, cooling his heels while the others are inside making their report. His presence there has not been invited, and all his ingenuity fails to find a pretext for entering unasked; neither is he willing to lose the slender chance of a last few words alone with Norah. And so he remains walking to and fro in the flat, to the unspoken wonder of the marine sentry who is not accustomed to see the first lieutenant of the ship spending his time in this fashion.

But he has not long to wait. In a few minutes the captain's door opens to let the strangers out; and seeing Stapleton there on the spot, Captain Blake is well content to hand them over again to his care, excusing himself from attending them on the grounds that he must put the written statements in order and lock them away in a safe place. Adding as he bows them out of the room:

"But I shall see you again in a few minutes, before you leave us. The destroyer cannot be long now—indeed, she should have been here by this time; but I expect this thick weather has delayed her."

Poor Stapleton! All his attempts to detach Norah from her cousin on the way back to the wardroom prove quite unavailing. Given a little longer time he would no doubt find some excuse for doing so; but the distance is so short that he is unable to hit upon any plausible expedient before the three are once more in the now deserted wardroom; and there, of course, any tête-à-tête is now quite out of the question.

Despairing of this, though he greatly longs for it, he makes the best of a bad job, and like the good fellow he is applies himself whole-heartedly to the more prosaic task of ensuring the comfort of the wayfarers on their journey to the shore and afterwards.

So, no longer the lover but for the time being the plain practical man of sound common sense, he enquires:

"Now, what about money? Of course, you will need some when you land, and it's quite certain you haven't any with you now; better let me lend you some to carry on with till you get to your home."

"No, no!" cries the girl vehemently, shrinking back as though the offer were positively repugnant to her. "We cannot take it from you! We shall be able to manage somehow!"

And yet the offer is a kindly one, and, in fact, a very obviously practical one under the circumstances. Why, then, should she display such a horror of accepting it?

It must be just her sensitiveness, a reluctance to take money from a stranger, Stapleton thinks; half inclined to smile at the fierceness of the refusal; but recollecting the severe strain to which her nerves have been put to-day he readily attributes it to this cause, and gently insists:

"Why, you need not mind, surely, taking it from me as a loan? I am not giving it to you, and you can send it back as soon as ever you get to your friends again."

But Norah shakes her head, and would refuse for the second time but for the fact that she seems unable to find words under the stress of her deep emotion.

However, Patrick Sheridan is troubled by no sensitive scruples, and effectually puts an end to her vain resistance by the gentle yet firm rebuke,

"What nonsense, Norah! Don't be so foolish; it is a very sensible and kind offer, and I shall be very grateful to accept it. And though I shall of course return the money at the earliest possible moment, I shall still be in your debt for your great kindness—we all of us will be, and that's a fact. But where's Netta? I don't see her here. What can have become of her?"

"Yes, where is she?" echoes Norah anxiously.

"I don't know. Anyhow, she can't be very far away; but she had better be ready, the destroyer can't be more than a very few minutes now. Would you like me to go and look for her?"

"Oh yes, please do."

"I'd be greatly obliged if you would, then." Both the man and the girl appear equally desirous, even anxious, judging by the way they speak; but somehow or other Stapleton gets the impression that while Norah's wish is for Netta's presence, Sheridan on the other hand merely wants to get rid of him.

This is no time, however, to analyze motives, and Stapleton merely remarks on his way to the door,

"All right. And I'll get some money at the same time. I won't be more than a couple of minutes."

Hardly has he gone out when a marine sentry enters, and announces the message he has been ordered to give:

"First lieutenant, sir? From the officer of the watch. The destroyer is just coming alongside to take the party ashore." The stolid marine speaks as though it were just a matter of conveying the guests at a Spithead wardroom tea-party back to Southsea pier, and evidently thinks that sending back from the high seas in a destroyer a party of shipwrecked people is no more than part of the ordinary routine of the ship.

It is not till he has come to the end of his message that he perceives he has delivered it in vain, and with a smart "Beg pardon, sir, I thought he was in here," he turns to go.

"No, he's not here," Sheridan informs him, pointing to the other door, "he went out that way, only a moment ago." The sentry thanks him, salutes again, and departs in the direction indicated; Sheridan following him with his eyes till the door closes, leaving him alone with Norah.

Then suddenly he becomes transfigured. His calmness leaves him, and he becomes in an instant a different being, a fierce wild creature with whitened face and blazing eyes. And when he turns to speak to the girl at his side his voice comes in a hoarse whisper:

"Now, Norah, quickly! There's no time for you to choose a better place. Bad luck to the captain for getting us out of it so soon—I never thought it would be a rush like this! You will just have to put it down here somewhere—anywhere, so long as it is out of sight. Make haste, girl!"

Who is this girl who stands here with pallid lips and great burning eyes, erect and majestic as a priestess of some ancient faith—and yet with a shade of fear in her face like a priestess who shrinks at the very moment of sacrifice? Can it be the same Norah Sheridan whose sweet dark loveliness only just now won her a knight errant at first sight—yes, and more than a knight errant, a lover for life?

And what is this thing she plucks from her bosom with tremulous fingers—a wicked looking flat steel box, engraved with numerals and fitted with a strong spring lying fiat to its side?

Boldly she drags it from its soft, warm hiding place; and then, suddenly, all her boldness vanishes when she sees the accursed thing actually before her eyes. She looks wildly around her, and—and hesitates.

"Down there, look, behind that bookcase," the voice of her overbearing companion urges her. "Hurry now! Set it for two hours; you know how. By that time it will be quite dark, and all that are in her will be sent to the bottom for ever!"

Ah, that he should have made choice of these words of all others to screw the courage of his accomplice to the sticking-point! Their effect is none other than to awaken an echo of a voice heard but just now and forgotten a moment later; a manly voice, but yet a pleading one, whose low insistent tones had framed the entreaty.

"—if those eyes of yours do not shine for me, then I shall be for ever in darkness!"

Yes, indeed, for ever in the darkness; and hers the hand to send him there, him and all others in the ship with him!

Sheridan has crept round the long table and stands listening at the door, holding the handle so as to delay for a second or two longer, if need be, anyone who should enter before the deed is quite accomplished.

From that vantage-point he turns an angry face towards the girl who still stands nerveless and threatening to fail him just at the culminating moment when the hazardous scheme bids fair to result in complete success.

So overwrought with passion is he that when he essays to whisper the words come from his dry lips more like a hiss.

"Make haste, curse you! They'll be here before you can do it if you don't hurry! Put it down I tell ye!"

"Ah, no, no!" A moaning sob mingles with the low-spoken refusal.

Sheridan gasps, at his wits' end for fear the diabolical plan is going to fail even now at the very last.

No, not quite at his wits' end. He has still another card to play: and he plays it, quietly, persuasively, with all the consummate art he has at his command:

"Ah, then, is it hesitate ye would? Have you forgotten your own father shot down in cold blood in the streets of Dublin by the brutal English soldiers? Murdered, with all his sins upon him! Have you forgotten your mother, the heart of her broken by the cruel deed, and she falling dead across his grave the day they buried him? Can ye not hear them crying out to you now? Take shame to yourself, girl—what kind of daughter is it ye are to play the weak fool now that the chance of vengeance is in your very hands?"

He has struck the right chord, as well he knew he would. An answering vibration stirs the girl's heart-strings and thrills her to her inmost soul.

Once more she becomes the inspired priestess, and steels herself to the dread sacrifice; her eyes glow with the flame of revenge, and sternly she declares: "I'll do it! Yes—I will!"