Captain Dove had come up on deck, and was standing by the companion-hatch, drawing difficult breaths, swaying to the rise and sink of the ship on the long, slow, ceaseless swell.

He had only a greatcoat secured by a single button about his shoulders over his night-dress, and on his feet an old pair of carpet slippers. Sallie darted a blazing glance of indignation at Jasper Slyne who, instead of helping the sick old man, seemed only bent on aggravating him with his evil tongue.

"You coward!" she cried at that immaculate gentleman, and would have gone to the old man's aid but that he angrily waved her also aside as he tottered forward, changing his scowl by the way to that sleek, benevolent smile which he could always assume at his pleasure.

A slow silence followed on the low, suspicious rumble of voices with which the mutineers had greeted his most unexpected appearance. They had, of course, supposed him physically incapable of further interference with them and their plans. But, as it was, he did not look very dangerous in his grotesque dishabille.

As he reached the rail, Reuben Yoxall stepped to one side, touching his cap in his customary salute. Slyne had halted a couple of paces behind, and Sallie, too, had drawn back. Captain Dove stood alone at the top of the stairway, in the forefront of the little group there, and looked contemplatively down at the men who, he knew very well, would listen to no appeal of his for his life. From his placid, benign demeanour then he might have been inspecting a Sunday-school.

His features were in themselves of an unctuous cast, smooth, flat, snub-nosed, clean-shaven as a rule, except for a straggling fringe of whisker. His white hair and weak, winking eyes added to his smugly sanctimonious expression. He was squat of build, unduly short in the legs and long of arm. And, altogether, he cut no very dashing figure in his ridiculous garments, one sleeve of his coat hanging limp and empty, the arm that should have filled it lying across his chest in a sling, his chin disfigured by a week's growth of stubble, his whiskers all unkempt.

But it had never been by his gallant presence that he had held to heel the cut-throats who composed his crew, and, even then, when they had him before them helpless, a certain target for their loaded rifles, not one of them seized the immediate opportunity.

He steadied himself with his free hand on the rail of the narrow stairway, and so stepped downward among them. Still no one else moved. It may have been that his almost inhuman daring daunted them in spite of themselves. But Sallie, in the background, was holding her breath. She knew he was courting a bloody death, and feared he would meet it there, before her shrinking eyes. That tragedy and all its unspeakable consequences were literally hanging on a hair-trigger.

He reached the level below, still smiling blandly, and, letting go the rail, shuffled forward, slowly but steadily enough, his slippers flapping at his heels with ludicrous effect. Two or three of the men confronting him stepped to one side, gave him free passage into the throng, and closed in again behind him. He took no notice of anyone, but held on his way till he reached the ladder which led from the break of the poop to the quarter-deck.

He climbed that at his leisure, panting a little, his back toward them. They had faced about and were following his every movement with malevolent eyes. A single shot would have made a quick end of him, but no shot was fired. And, at the top of the ladder, he turned to speak.

"I'll send Mr. Hobson aft to issue your ammunition," he said, in a voice without any tremor of weakness. "Get two full bandoliers, each of you, and then file forward again while the others come aft for theirs."

And with that, leaving them to their own reflections, agape, absolutely dumfounded by his audacity, he made his way up on to the bridge, the skirts of his night-dress fluttering from under the shorter length of his heavy coat.

They fell to whispering among themselves, excited and distrustful. They had only a few loose rounds for their rifles, and Captain Dove alone knew how the ship's magazine might safely be entered. It would undoubtedly have cost some of them their lives to force that secret. No one of them would be willing to sacrifice himself for the common cause, and Captain Dove's unlooked-for concession of their chief need had no doubt mystified them altogether.

Hobson, the second mate, came aft a few minutes later, a beetle-browed, foxy-looking fellow, with a furtive smile of encouragement for his accomplices. At a sign from him they unshipped the hatches. He disappeared into the hold, a bunch of keys dangling from one wrist, and presently shouted up some order, in terms much more polite than he had lately been in the habit of using, to them at least. A chain of living links was promptly formed from the magazine, and packed bandoliers, passed rapidly from hand to hand, soon reached its farther end. The men grinned meaningly at each other as they slung the web belts crosswise over their shoulders. For with these they were still more absolutely masters of the situation.

Reuben Yoxall, back at his dangerous post by the stairway, was watching them no less narrowly than before. It seemed the sheerest madness on Captain Dove's part to have disclosed to their ringleader the secret of the magazine, and no one could tell at what moment they might now assume the offensive. The sun was already dipping behind the sea-rim.

"We've changed our course," Sallie said to him in a puzzled whisper, and he nodded silently. The Olive Branch was heading inshore. The outline of the coast had grown clearer under the last of the evening light. Here and there against its smudgy-brown background showed dark green blots that were mangroves or clumps of palm. A thin, white ribbon of surf was distinctly visible on the distant beach.

Captain Dove was at the starboard extremity of the bridge, his binoculars at his eyes. He laid them down, and pointed out to the third mate, at his elbow, some landmark directly ahead. Then he climbed carefully down to the quarter-deck and began to make his way aft again. Behind him, rifles in hand, came creeping another strong contingent of his strangely numerous crew. Half a dozen of those nearest him had drawn and fixed the long sword-bayonet each wore at his hip.

The old man in greatcoat and slippers paused at the after-rail of the quarter-deck. The bayonets were almost at his shoulder blades. But the three anxious onlookers aft could not even warn him of that additional danger, to which he seemed quite oblivious.

The crowd at the open hatch looked round at him, as of one accord, and the bulk turned on their heels towards him, but a few remained facing the three still, silent figures on the poop. Sunset and the final instant of crisis had come together.

From among the men grouped about the hatch one stepped forward, as if to speak. Captain Dove held up his hand and the fellow hesitated, with bent brows. A quick, angry growl arose from among his neighbours. But Captain Dove was not to be hurried. He cleared his throat and spat indifferently into the scuppers.

"I've a little job ashore for you lads to-night," he said then, in a tone audible to all, "a job that'll fill our empty pockets properly—if it's properly carried out. We haven't been so lucky of late that we can afford to lay off just yet. What money there is on board means no more than a few dollars apiece, share and share alike. I know where I can lay my hands on a thousand at least for each of us. If you think that's worth your while, get away forward now to your supper; the others are coming aft for their ammunition."

He ceased abruptly, and for a moment no one answered him or made any move. He had succeeded in raising their curiosity, and so gained some trifling respite at least for himself. They were turning over in their dense minds, however suspiciously, this new and plausible suggestion of his.

It was no news that there was very little money on board, and—they were of a class which always can be led to grasp at the shadow if that looks larger to them than the substance itself. They hesitated—and they were lost. Captain Dove had descended among them, and as if the subject were closed, was pushing his way through the gathering with a good-humoured, masterful, "Get forward. Get away forward, now."

And they gave way again before him, apparently forgetful of their purpose there, quite willing, since they held the power securely in their own hands, to await the outcome of one more night. In the morning, and rich, as he promised, or no worse off if his promise failed, they could just as conveniently close their account with him. As the others came crowding aft, those already possessed of bandoliers began to file forward, exchanging rough jokes with their fellows.

Captain Dove addressed a parting remark to them from the poop. "We won't be going ashore till midnight," said he, "and I must get some sleep or I won't be fit for the work we've to do there. I'm sick enough as it is. Get that hatch-cover on again as soon as you can, and keep to your own end of the ship till the time comes. I'll send you forward a hogshead of rum to help it along."

"Ay, ay, sir," a voice answered him cheerily from out of the gathering darkness, and Sallie saw that he almost smiled to himself as he staggered toward the companion-hatch.

There he would have fallen, spent, but that she, at his shoulder, caught hold of him and held him up till Slyne came to her assistance. And they together got him safely below.

"Gimme brandy," he gasped, as he lay limply back in the chair on which they had set him. His lips were white. His overworked heart had almost failed him under the strain he had put on it.

The stimulant still served its purpose, however. He sat up again, revived.

"But that was an uncommon close call!" he commented, half to himself. "I felt blind-sure I'd have a bayonet through my back before I could play my last card. And I didn't believe I'd win out even with that. But here I am, and—" He turned to the girl at his side.

"Don't stand there idling, Sallie," he ordered querulously, "when there's so much to be done. Tell Ambrizette to bring me a bull's-eye lantern. Go up and see if the decks are clear yet. Send Reuben Yoxall down to me as soon as they are. And then get ready for going ashore. You'll have to wear something that won't be seen—but take a couple of Arab cloaks in a bundle with you as well."

At that Jasper Slyne spoke, divided between doubt and anger.

"What devilment have you in your mind now, Dove?" he demanded. "You surely don't mean to—You told me yourself that there's nothing but dangerous desert ashore here."

"Never you mind what I mean to do, Mister Slyne," Captain Dove answered him with a gratified grin, picking up the brandy bottle again. "When I want any advice from you, I'll let you know. And, if I ever ask you again to help me into my clothes, you'll maybe be more obliging next time.

"Dutch courage is cheap enough, Mister Slyne," said the old man tauntingly. "So I'm going ashore,—into the dangerous desert,—in a few minutes, with Sallie. But there's nothing you need be afraid of, for you're going to stay safe on board."