"Red light on starboard bow, sir," came the hail from forward. The man was Jenson, a "square-head" of more than usual intelligence and of keen eyesight.

"All right," said the mate softly, with no concern. He gazed steadily at a point two points off the starboard bow, picked up the night glass, and took a quick look. Then he left the pilot house where he had been, and walked athwartships on the bridge.

He was a young man. His eyes squinted a little under the strain of night work and showed the wrinkles at their corners. His hair was black and curly, and his bronzed face, strong-lined and handsome, was full of the strength and vigor of youth. He had gone to sea at fifteen. He was now twenty-five and a chief mate in a passenger ship, a first-class navigator, a good seaman. And the company liked him. He was a favorite, a young man rising in the best ships. Five feet eight in his white canvas shoes and white duck uniform, he looked short, for he was very stout of limb; a powerful man who had gained his strength by hard work in the forecastle and upon the main deck of several windjammers whose records in the Cape trade were well known to all shipping men.

It was the midwatch. Mr. James had been upon the bridge about half an hour only. It was the blackest part of the night, the time between one and two, in the latitude north of Hatteras. James rubbed his eyes once or twice, brushed his short mustache from his mouth with his fingers, and felt again for the night glass just within the pilot-house window, which was open.

"How does she head?" he asked the helmsman softly.

"West, two degrees north, sir," said the quartermaster at the steam steering wheel.

James looked again, and, replacing the glass, walked to the bridge rail and stopped.

The point far ahead to starboard was showing plainly. It was the red light of some steamer whose hull was still below the horizon. Her funnel tops just showed like a black dot, darker than the surrounding gloom. Her masthead light was very bright, shining like a star of the first magnitude that had just risen from a clear sky. He knew she was a long way off. Not less than twelve miles separated the vessels. There was plenty of time for a change of course. He began to hum softly:

"When the lights you see ahead, Port your helm and show your red——"

"Yes," he muttered, "it's a good old saw—poetry of the night. I wonder if she knows of the poetry of—of—the sea——"His mind went back to the days ashore, the last days he had spent upon the beach with her.

"And I have worked up to this for you," he had told her with all the feeling he could muster, the strong passion of a strong man asking for what he desired most. "I have worked up to this for you, just you."

The words rang in his ears. The scene was there before him. The beautiful woman, the woman he loved more than his life. He could tell her no more than that—he had done all he had done just for her, just to be able to call her his own.

The dead monotony of the life before him hung like a black pall, heavy in the night. He saw all the lonely years he must face, all the hard life of the sailor, for she had simply laughed lightly, looked him squarely in the eyes—and shook her head.

"No," she had said gently. "No, you mustn't think of it—I mean it——" And he knew that what he had done was as nothing to her, nothing at all—what was a mate to a woman like that?

The steady vibration of the engines below made the steel rigging shake. The low drone of the side wash as the surf roared from the bows made a soft murmur where it reached his ears. It made him drowsy, dreamy, and sullen. He cared for nothing now. What was a mate, after all? Any corner groceryman was far better in the eyes of most women. Perhaps he had been mistaken. Perhaps the position he had ideals of was not much. Yes—that was it; he had been mistaken. And he gazed steadily out into the dark future, and subconsciously he saw a long, dreary life of toil and trouble, without the woman he loved to relieve the dark solitude.

Before him rose the lights. The red was now well up and rising fast. It had been but a flickering spark at first, showing soon after the bright headlight had risen. It was upon the port side of that vessel's bridge and high above the sea. It was electric, for no ordinary oil burner would show so far with color. The ship must be a liner of size, and must be going fast. Suddenly he saw a flash of green. It was the starboard light of the approaching ship. Then for an instant both side lights shone brightly.

The vessel then was not crossing his bows, after all. The green was her starboard light, and that was the one she must show. It was all right then. He would not change the course. If she swung out, she must be coming almost head on now, for her red had shone but two points off the bow, and the converging courses must be drawing together.

All right then. If they crossed before the ships met it was well and good. There would probably be a mile or more to spare, and he was even now crossing her course, for he saw her green light, which showed him he was right ahead of her, and his rate of speed would take him over in a few moments. Then her green would be upon his right or starboard side, showing that she was passing astern of him. It was simple, plain as could be. He paid little or no attention any longer.

And then suddenly the green light faded and the red shone again. It caused the officer to stop in his walk, which he had begun again to keep in action.

"Port your helm a little," he ordered as he realized the positions.

"Aye, aye, sir—port it is, sir," came the monotonous response from the pilot-house window; and the clanking of the steam gear sounded faintly upon his ears.

The giant liner swung slowly to starboard, swung just a little; and, as she did so, the loom of a monstrous figure rose right ahead in the night. The glare of the bright headlight shone close aboard. The red of her port light was a dangerous glare; and at a space to port flickered a moment the fatal green of the starboard side light, flickered, and then went out, shut off by the running board as the vessel swung across the bows of the ship, where the mate stood gazing at her.

"Hard aport," he yelled savagely.

"Hard aport, sir," came the response from the wheel, and the voice showed more or less concern now.

There was an instant of suspense, a moment of silence, and the two giant shapes came close with amazing speed. The liner swung to her port helm, and her bows pointed clear of the light ahead. But the speed was awful. Both going at twenty-five knots an hour, making the closing speed nearly a mile a minute, brought the giants too close to pass clear.

There was a hoarse cry from forward. The mate knew he was not going to clear, and the roar of his siren tore the night's silence. Then the huge fabrics came in collision. There was a gigantic crash, a thundering shock, and a tearing, ripping sound as steel tore steel to ribbons.

The shock made the rigging sing like a giant harp under the strain, and the "ping" of parting steel lines sounded in accompaniment to the tumultuous crashing of wood and iron. The cries of men came faintly through the uproar from forward, and this was followed almost instantly by frantic shrieks from aft as the effect of the shock was felt by the women passengers.

The liner had failed to clear, and, swinging too late to port, had cut slantingly into the other ship's quarter and tore away the greater part of her stern. Tearing, grinding, ripping, and snapping, the huge shapes ground alongside for a few moments as their headway took them along without reducing speed. Too late the reversing engines, too late the telegraph for all speed astern. The ships had come in contact. The mate had run into another ship that had shown him her red light to starboard. There was no mistake about it. The cry of the seaman on watch had been heard by fifty persons.

"Red light on the starboard bow, sir——"

It rang in the officer's ears. It sounded above the terrible din of smashing steel and beams, and even above the roar of the sirens telling of the death wound that had been given a marine monster of twenty-five thousand tons register.

The awful feeling of responsibility paralyzed the mate. The terror of what he had done numbed him; stunned him so that he stood there upon the bridge like a man asleep. Fifteen hundred human souls were sinking in that ship, which was now drifting off to port in the night with their cries sounding faintly through the blackness, even rising to be heard through the roar of the steam. He thought of it. It was ghastly. Fifteen hundred souls; and he knew how badly he had wounded the ship. He knew the terrific power of the blow he had delivered—shearing off the after part of that vessel and letting in the sea clear to the midship bulkhead. There was no chance for her to float. The wound was too deadly. It was as bad as though he had rammed her with a battleship's ram.

The half-dressed form of the captain rushed to him—his captain.

"What happened?" he whispered hoarsely. He seemed to be afraid to ask the question loudly. "Great Heaven, did you hit her?"

The mate stood gazing at the huge shadow, and his tongue refused to answer the question. Then the voice beside him seemed to gain its power. It roared out:

"Bulkheads, there—close them, quick!" And the automatic device, worked from the pilot house, was pulled savagely.

The captain rushed into the pilot house. The man at the wheel who had left it to throw the lever to close the bulkheads sprang back to his post.

"How'd you do it?" asked the master again, in a low voice full of passion and strained to the utmost. "How'd you strike—don't you know you killed at least five hundred men? You murdering brute—you were asleep." Then he raised his voice again, and bawled down through the tube to MacDougal, the chief engineer.

"How is she—quick—get the pumps going—collision—keep the firemen cool, and for God's sake don't let them panic—keep them at their posts until we see what's up. We've run down the express steamer Blue Star, of the Royal Dutch Line——"

The master turned to the pilot house again and looked out of the window. His chief officer was still standing where he had left him.

"In Heaven's name, Mr. James, what's the matter with you to-night?" he broke out wildly, in passionate tones, almost sobbing. "It's all hands—get 'em out quick!"

He was a strange creature standing there in his undershirt and drawers, with his long gray beard streaming down across his breast. The man at the wheel even looked at him for a moment, but did not smile. It was tragedy, not comedy.

"Is she full speed astern?" asked the master quickly.

"Yes, sir, full speed astern, sir," said the man. His face was white, and his hands shook a little while he held the spokes of the wheel. There was death for many that night, and he knew it. It would be hard to tell who would survive in the rush that was sure to come if the ship went down. Yet his seamanship told him that much was to be hoped from the forward bulkhead. It would hold her up if it could stand the strain.In two minutes there was a rush of hundreds of feet upon the decks below the flying bridge. The second officer came up half naked, dressed in shirt and trousers, without shoes or stockings. He was a powerful man and short, with a tremendous voice, a real Yankee bos'n voice; and he roared out orders for the men, who jumped to their stations automatically.

The captain came again to the bridge and took command. He yelled to the boat crews below, and strove to quiet the crowding passengers who pushed and fought about the boats in spite of the after guard and seamen.

"Get down there and wade into that mess, Wilson," said the master to the second officer; and he jumped down and went bawling through the press, pushing and pulling, striking here and there a refractory passenger who would insist upon trying to fill the small boats.

"There is no danger—no danger whatever," roared the captain again and again from the bridge. The petty officers took up the cry, and gradually the press about the starboard lifeboats grew less. The boats upon the port side had been all carried away or smashed to bits. Ten boats were left.

A man rushed up the bridge steps coming from aft.

"She's sinking, sir," he panted, pointing to the dim shadow of the rammed ship drifting astern. The steady roar of her siren told of the danger, and seemed to be a resonant cry for help.

The master gazed aft. Then he rushed to the pilot-house window and took up the night glass hanging there. He looked hard at the ship now lying astern and riding with her bows high in the air. The man was right. She was rapidly going down. Ten minutes at the most would tell the whole story.

"Get the starboard boats out, Mr. James," called the captain in an even tone, "and let no one but the crews in them. The first man who attempts to get in will be shot. Go to the vessel and bring back all you can—quick——"

But the form there had vanished before he had finished speaking. The chief officer had awakened at last from his stupor. His responsibility came back to him with a rush of feeling. But an instant before he had faced the end. He had decided to kill himself at once, and was just about to go to his room for his gun. He was too ashamed to face the ordeal, the ordeal of the officer who has run down a ship in a clear night. There had been literally no excuse for him. He could not plead ignorance of the laws; his license as officer made that impossible. He knew what to do when raising a light to starboard when that light was red. The rules were plainly written. Every common waterman knew them by heart. He had disobeyed them by some mischance, some mistake he could not exactly define; but he knew that under it all was that dull, sullen apathy from a wrong, or fancied wrong, that had caused him to be negligent.

He would not go upon the witness stand and say that, because a woman did not love him, he had allowed his ship to ram a liner with fifteen hundred souls aboard her in a clear night. No! Death was a hundred, a thousand times better than such ignominy, such a miserable, cowardly sort of excuse. He would blow his brains out just as soon as he saw the finish, just as soon as he knew his vessel would float. Then came the captain's voice of command:

"Get out the starboard boats and save all you can——"

Yes, it was his duty; his above all others. He was at number one boat before the master had finished his orders.

Six good men were at their stations. The falls were run taut, the boat shoved clear, and down she went with a rush into the sea. Nine others followed within a minute, and ten boats pulled away into the darkness astern, where the roar of the siren still sounded loud and resonant—a wild, terrible cry of death and destruction.

James met a boat coming toward him before he reached the ship. She was full. Sixty-two men and women filled her, and she just floated, and that was all, her gunwales awash in the smooth sea. The swell lifted her, and she rose high above him, a dark object against the sky. Then she sank slowly down into the trough, and disappeared behind the hill of water that ran smoothly from the northeast in long, heaving seas.

The night was still fine, and the wind almost nothing at all. The banks of vapor rising in the east told of a change; but the change was not yet. James noticed the weather mechanically, as a good seaman does, from a small boat when at sea at night; but he was thinking of the huge shadow which now drew close aboard.

As the boat came under the port side, he could see the passengers crowding the rail in the waist, where the lifeboats were being filled and sent away as fast as men could work them. Seven boats were alongside full of human beings. Two more were being lowered. Three came from under the stern as he drew alongside.

There was a mass of people still to be taken off. He saw at a glance that the liner had twenty large lifeboats for her complement. One was smashed. There was every reason to believe she would send out nineteen with at least a thousand people in them. There would be several hundred more to take besides these. The life rafts might do it, but he knew the danger of life rafts in the furious struggle in a sinking ship.

The thing would be to save the passengers with his own boats. This he might do if the ship floated long enough. She was sinking fast, as he could see by her rising bows. She was probably even now hanging solely by her midship bulkhead, and that would most likely be badly smashed by the collision, for he had struck the ship far enough forward to do it damage, although his vessel had only cut into her well aft. The blow had been slanting. A little more time, perhaps a few seconds, and the ships would have swung clear.

He came alongside and hailed the deck.

"Send them down lively—come along now, quick!" he called up in his natural voice. It was the first time since the collision he had spoken. It sounded strange to hear his own tones coming natural again.

In a few moments he was crowding and seating the women and children in his boat. Then came the men from everywhere. They crowded down the falls, jumped into the sea, and swam alongside, begging to be hauled aboard, or climbed over the high gunwales themselves. One powerful young man, stripped to the waist, dived clean from the hurricane deck, and almost instantly rose alongside. Then he swung himself into the boat, and stood amidships hauling others in until the craft settled down to her bearings and the men at the oars could hardly row.

"Shove off—give way," ordered James.

The boat started back slowly, the men rowing gingerly, poking and striking the passengers in the backs with the oars until the crowd settled itself. Then she went along slowly toward the ship, and the women in her prayed, the men swore, and the children wept and sobbed. And all the time the fact that he was the cause of it all impressed James queerly. He could not understand it, could not quite see why he had done it, and yet he knew he had. One man spoke to the athlete who had dived.

"They should burn a man who would sink a ship like this on a clear night; they should burn him to a stake—the drunken, cowardly scoundrel——"

And James sat there with the tiller ropes in his hand; sat silent, thoughtful, and knew in his heart the man had spoken the truth. If he could only be sure of the passengers—he would not give them a chance to say anything more. His boat came alongside his own ship. The crowd above cheered him—they did not know—he was a hero to them, the first boat with the rescued. How quickly they would change that cheer when they learned the truth! He almost smiled. His set face, strong-lined, bronzed, and virile, turned away from the people in the boat. He gave orders in the usual tone. The passengers were quickly passed aboard. Then he started back for another load.

By this time the sides of his ship were crowded with boats. She was taking aboard over a thousand people, and the sea was still smooth.

The swell heaved higher as the small boat went back toward the sinking steamer. James noticed it. The sky to the eastward was dark with a bank of vapor. The air had the feeling of a northeaster. It was coming along, and there was plenty of time, for it would come slowly. The last of the passengers would be either sunk or aboard his own ship before the breeze rose to a dangerous extent.

The men rowed quickly. They were anxious. The horror of the whole thing had fallen upon them like a pall; but they strove mightily to do their share. James found his boat to be the last to reach the sinking ship.

The liner was well down now by the stern and her deck was awash aft. She rose higher and higher as he gazed at her, her decks slanting, sloping, and she rolled loggily in the growing swell. Her siren stopped. A dull, muffled roar from the sea, a smothered explosion told of the end of the boilers. She would go in a moment. The passengers were clinging, grabbing to anything to hold on. The deck slanted so dangerously that many were slid off into the sea where they plunged, some silently and hopelessly, others screaming wildly with the terror of sudden death.

James watched them. He saw many die, saw many go to their end. Others swam; and he strove to pick them up, forgetting himself in the struggle.

He picked up sixteen in this manner, steering for them as they swam about in the night calling for help. The last one was a girl, a beautiful girl of twenty or less. He hauled her into the boat.

A sudden, wild yelling caused him to look. The sinking liner stood upon end, her forefoot clear of the sea. She swung loggily to and fro for a moment, settling as she did so. Then, with a rush, she plunged stern first to the bottom, the crash of her bursting decks as the air blew out being the last sound he heard.

The ship was very close to him. Her swing as she foundered brought her closer. The vortex sucked his boat toward her, drew the craft with a mighty pull. A spar, twisting, whirling in the swirl, struck the boat, and instantly she was a wreck, capsized, engulfed in the mighty hole the sinking liner made in the sea with her last plunge.

James found himself smothered, drowning, drawn downward by a great force he could not fight against. The whole ocean seemed to pull down upon him and crush him into its black depths.The whole thing took such a small space of time, he hardly realized his position. The utter blackness, the salt water in his eyes and mouth, all paralyzed his mind for a few moments. Then he thought of his end. It was just as well. He was drowning, going to the bottom. He must soon go, anyhow; he could not face those wrecked passengers; and with the thought came a grim peacefulness, a satisfaction that the fight was all over. He could now rest at last.

But nature within him was very strong. He was a powerful man. When he gave up the struggle, his natural buoyancy lifted him to the surface of the sea. He came up, his head appearing in the air, and he breathed again in spite of himself. Then the old, old fighting spirit, the desire to survive which is so strong within the breast of every young animal, took charge. No, he would not go down yet. He must see the finish, the end of things in which he was concerned.

He swam about aimlessly. The swell heaved him high up, dropped him far down; and he noticed that now the sea was running, the small combers rising before a stiff breeze. These burst upon his face and head and smothered him a little. He turned his back to them, and swam on, on, and still on into the darkness.

He saw nothing. The ship, the boats had all gone. Once he was about to cry for help; but the thought was horrible, distasteful to the last degree. He had no right to call for help. He would not. But he swam and tried to see something to get upon.

Something struck him heavily upon the head. Stars swam before his eyes. He reached upward with his hands, and they met a solid substance. Then he sank slowly down, down—and the blackness came upon him.

The object that had hit him was a small boat. In it were a man and a girl, the girl James himself had picked up from the sea a short time before. The man was a seaman, and he heard the boat strike. He reached over the side, caught the glimpse of a human form as it struck the boat's side and sank.

The seaman took up the boat hook and was about to poke the body away. He was sick of dead men, sick of seeing corpses floating about. He had met half a dozen already that night. But this one seemed to move, and the hook caught in his clothes. He pulled the body up, and saw the man was not dead, but dazed, moving feebly in a drunken way. Then he pulled James into the boat.

James regained his senses after half an hour; and during that time the boat ran before a stiff squall of wind and rain that swept it along before it into the darkness. The seaman steered with an oar, and kept the boat's head before the wind. The mate opened his eyes, and in the gray of the early dawn he saw a man he did not know, a seaman from the sunken liner, steering the boat calmly before the gale that was now coming fast with the rising sun. Near him in the bottom of the boat lay the girl huddled up and moaning with cold and fright, and fatigue.

James arose and staggered aft.

"How'd I get here?" he asked.

"I pulled you in, sir," said the sailor. "Are you from the ship that sank us?"

"Yes. I'm the mate, the chief officer."

"Well, if I'd 'a' know'd it, I mightn't have taken the trouble," said the seaman.

James said nothing. There was nothing for him to say. He knew the sailor was right. He knew the officers of his ship were men to scorn, to hate—but he would not say it was himself alone who had done the terrible deed. Something stopped him. It might have been sheer shame—or fear. He looked at the girl. Then he went to her and raised her, placing her upon a seat and trying to cheer her up.

"We'll be picked up soon—don't worry about it. Our ship will stand by and hunt for all the missing——"

"But I'm dreadfully cold," said the girl, with chattering teeth.

"Put my coat on, then," said James; and he took off his soaked coat and made her put it on.

The man grinned in derision.

"Say," he said, "who was on watch when you hit us?"

James took no notice. He would not answer the question. Then the girl spoke up.

"Yes, whose fault was it? You belong to the other ship, you'll know all about it. They ought to hang the man who is responsible for this awful thing—my poor mother and father—oh——" And she broke into a sob.

The man at the steering oar smiled grimly.

"Yes, miss, that's right, they sure ought to hang the officer who runs down a liner on a clear night when he's bound to see the lights plainly. I don't make no excuses for him—it's more'n murder."

"You were on watch, on duty—you are dressed?" said the girl.

"Yes, I knowed it when I first seen you," snarled the seaman. "I reckon you're the man who did it—what was the matter? Couldn't you keep awake, or what?" The tone was a sneer, an insult, yet the sailor did wish to find out how so unusual a thing could happen as the running down of a ship on a clear night when her lights could be seen fifteen miles or more.

James tried to defend himself. It was instinctive. The contempt of the sailor was too much. On other occasions, he never allowed the slightest insolence from the men of his own vessel. But now the officer was numb, paralyzed. He was guilty—and he knew it.

For hours they sat now in silence, the seaman holding the boat steady before the northeaster, which grew in power until by nine in the morning it was blowing a furious gale, and the sea was running strongly with sweeping combers. There was nothing to do but keep the boat before it. To try to head any other way meant to risk her filling from a bursting sea. The exertion of steering was great. The seaman, with set face, held onto the oar, and James could see the sweat start under the constant strain, but he said nothing—he waited.

"You'll have to take her, sir—a while—I'm getting played out," panted the man.

"All right," said James, "give her to me—now——"

He took the oar during the backward slant as she dropped down the side of the sea that passed under her. He was ready for the rush as she rose and shot forward again upon the breaking crest of the following hill. The exercise did him good. It made him think clearly, it took his mind from the hopelessness of his life.

All that day the two men took turns keeping the small boat before the sea; and they ran to the southward a full half hundred miles before the gale let up. Both were too exhausted to talk, too thirsty to even speak—and there was neither water nor food in the boat. Her ration of biscuit and water had been lost when she had been drawn down by the sinking liner.

The sailor had righted the boat after great effort, aided by the sea; and owing to the smoothness of the swell at the time he had managed to get her clear of water. Then he had picked up the girl who had been floating about, swimming and holding onto fragments of wreckage since James' boat had gone under.

The mate noticed that, although the girl had not spoken to him again after knowing he had caused the disaster, she still wore his coat. He studied the matter, the inconsistency of women, and he thought it strange. The sun shone for a moment before it set that evening; and in the glowing light James gazed steadily at the woman. She was very beautiful. She had not made a complaint since the morning. The sea was still running high, although the wind was going down with the sun, yet the girl had not been seasick, nor had she shown any suffering.

"How do you feel now?" he whispered, as he waited his turn at the oar.

"I'm all right, thank you. Do you think we will get picked up?" she said.

"We'll be picked up to-morrow—sure," said the officer. "We are now right in the track of the West India ships, and will sight something by daylight when we can set a signal. Are you very thirsty?"

"Tell me first, how did this accident occur? Were you really asleep, or just what? I can stand the thirst, and I'm warm enough now. This water is like milk in comparison with the air, it's so warm."

"We are in the Stream," said James; "the Gulf Stream, and that is about eighty along here—it's better than freezing in the high latitudes."

"You haven't answered my question," said the girl.

"I don't know—I don't remember what it was. I must have lost my head—been asleep—or something—yes, I was on duty, on watch—it was my fault entirely. I saw your ship, saw her red light to starboard—the right, you know. She had the right of way under the rules. I intended to swing off, waited a few minutes to see her better—then her green light showed—and—then it was too late. I went hard aport, did my best—but hit her—we were going very fast—both ships were going twenty-five knots—making the approaching speed fifty miles an hour—nearly a mile a minute—I must have lost my head just a moment—maybe I was dreaming——"

"I know you are not to blame," said the girl, placing her hand in his. "You have told me the truth, a straight story—but yet I don't see how it all happened. I'm not a sailor, anyhow; perhaps I couldn't understand. But I feel you didn't do it on purpose——"

"No, no," whispered James. "How could a man do a thing like that on purpose?" He could not tell her the truth. He was ashamed to mention a woman, to say he was sullen, depressed, stupefied at the loss of a love he bore a woman.

He took his place at the oar for the last time that night. The sea was no longer dangerous. They spoke of rigging a drag with the oar and thwarts, making a drag by the aid of the painter or line, which still was fast to her forward. They had finished this before dark, and then they lay down, exhausted. The girl stood watch. In the dim dawn the girl gave out. She had stood watch all night, and she was exhausted.

"I understand," she muttered to herself, "this poor fellow, this officer was tired out—he slept—I don't blame him at all, it was not his fault."

The sun shone upon the three sleeping, the boat riding safely and dry to the drag made of the oar and thwarts. James aroused himself first, awakening dimly with the warmth of the sun. He sat up. The two others slept on. The girl was breathing loudly, almost panting, and her parted lips were blue. Yet she was beautiful. James knew it. She was exhausted, and help must come soon for her.

He sat and gazed at the horizon, and when the sea lifted the boat, he stared hard all around to see if anything showed above the rim. Hours passed in this fashion. The girl moaned in her sleep. The sailor shifted uneasily, and grunted, snored, and murmured incoherently. They were all very thirsty.

It was about ten o'clock in the morning that James saw something to the northward. It was just a speck, just a tiny dot on the rim of sea; but he knew it was a ship of some kind, a vessel passing. The minutes dragged, and he was about to rouse the sailor to get him to help watch. Then he remembered how the fellow had striven so manfully the day before when they rode out the gale. No, he would let them sleep.

By noon, the vessel was close aboard and coming slowly with the wind upon her port beam. She was a schooner bound south. James could see the lumber on her decks. Her three masts swung to and fro in the swell, and she made bad weather of the sluggish sea. The foam showed white under her forefoot, and told of the speed being at least a few knots an hour. James called the sailor.

"Get up—turn out—there's a schooner alongside," he said. The man moved slightly, and slept on. James shook him roughly."Lemme alone," muttered the seaman.

"Ship ahoy!" yelled the mate as the schooner came within a quarter of a mile and headed almost straight for them. He stood up and waved his arms. Nothing came of it. The girl awoke. She sat up and realized the position. In a moment she had taken off her skirt and handed it to the mate. He waved it wildly; and his yelling finally awoke the exhausted seaman. The man stood up and bawled loudly. Then he washed his mouth with salt water, and yelled again and again. James swung the skirt. The girl prayed audibly.

The schooner stood right along on her course. She had not noticed the boat. Passing a few hundred fathoms from them caused all three to become frantic. The men bawled, cursed, and begged the schooner to take them in.

The captain of the vessel, coming on deck, happened to look in their direction. He spoke to the man at the wheel, who for the first time seemed to take his eyes from the compass card. Then, taking his glass, the captain saw that three living souls were in the small boat. The next instant he was bawling orders, and the schooner hauled her wind and came slatting into the breeze.

Six men appeared on her deck. James saw them working to get the small boat clear from her stern davits. Then they seemed to realize that this was unnecessary, and the schooner, flattening in her sheets, worked up to them slowly, rising and falling into the high swell. She stood across to windward, and then came about, easing off her sheets and drifting slowly down upon the boat.

She drew close aboard.

"Catch a line," yelled the captain from her deck.

James waved his hand in reply, and a heaving line flaked out and fell across the boat's gunwales.

In another moment they were being hauled aboard.

Explanations came at once. The master of the schooner was bound for South America.

"Of course, I'll put you all aboard the first homeward-bound ship I fall in with," said he.

"But you surely will put us ashore at once," said the girl, after she had drunk tea and changed her clothes. They were eating gingerly of ship's food and drinking water ravenously.

"That I cannot do, miss," said the captain. "I'm bound to Valparaiso with cargo, and I must take it there."

"But we will pay you to take us ashore—pay you anything, for I am very rich," said the girl.

The master smiled sadly. The effects of the forty hours in the open boat were evidently having their effect upon the young woman.

"No," he said, "you go below, and the steward will give you all you want to eat, and your clothes will be dry enough to put on again before night. We might fall in with a ship bound north any time now. Then you'll have a chance."

James knew the man was within his rights, of course. He was glad to be in the schooner. The sailor didn't seem to mind where he went. One ship was very much like another to him. The consul would be bound to ship him home, anyway. The girl was given a stateroom in the after cabin; and she soon slept the sleep of the exhausted.

The mate stayed on deck. The whole thing had a strange look to him. He had decided to kill himself. He dared not go back to the States, anyhow, to face the charges that would be made against him. He might slip overboard any night on the run down, and no one would be the wiser.

The fact that the schooner was bound to South America seemed to give him a respite. There was no hurry to commit the desperate act that he felt he must, in all honor and decency, do. He might live a month at least before dying.

After the awful struggle through the gale and shipwreck, he felt a desire to live more than before. The whole affair was more distant, almost effaced. And now he was not going back, anyhow.

The captain asked him few questions regarding his wreck, seeming to feel a certain delicacy about it. The day passed, and the next and the next, and no ship was sighted going north. They were now drawing out of the track of vessels, and a strange hope arose with the mate that they would not meet one.

The girl sat with him often, and they talked of other things than shipwreck. She was beautiful—there was no question about it. The glow of returning strength made her more lovely. James found himself wondering at her. She had been the only human being so far that would condescend to speak to him without contempt. He was lonely, very lonely, and the girl seemed to feel he needed some one to cheer him up. She did not realize his weakness. He was very strong to her; a strong man who had suffered from an accident, due, perhaps, to his carelessness, but not to criminal negligence. But he knew, he knew, and could not tell.

The days passed, and the terror of the thing he had in his mind began to fade slightly. He knew he must die. The sailor, his shipmate who had been picked up with him, had told every one in the schooner that he, James, was on watch and was responsible for a terrible disaster, the death of a great number of persons. James saw it in their looks. He knew he would never get a ship again, never hold a place among white men. Yes, he must die.

It gave him a sort of grim satisfaction to feel that he was just to live a certain length of time, that he would cut that short at the last moment. He wondered how a prisoner felt when the sentence of death was pronounced upon him. He had pronounced it upon himself. It was a genuine relief, for the vision of those terror-stricken, drowning passengers was always with him night and day, except when he was in a dreamless sleep. That sleep seemed to be portentous of what he would face.

The days turned to weeks and the weeks to months. The voyage was long and the winds light. They were ninety days to the latitude of the Falklands when they struck a furious "williwaw" from the hills of Patagonia. The schooner was in a bad fix. She was lightly manned; and, in spite of the addition of James and the seaman from the wreck, she held her canvas too long.

The struggle was short but terrific. The fore-topsail blew away and saved the mast; but the main held, and the topmast buckled and finally went by the board. The headsails had been lowered, but they blew out from the gaskets, and the jibboom snapped short off under the tremendous threshing of flying canvas. The maintopmast, hanging by the backstays, fell across the triatic stay, and the steel of the backstays cut into the spring until it finally parted under the jerks, and the mizzen was left to stand alone. It went by the board, and the great mast, snapping short at the partners, went over the side, and smashed and banged there at each heave of the ship.

There was desperate work to do to save the vessel. Her master did wonders and showed his skill; but the most dangerous and deadly task of going to leeward to cut adrift the lanyards was left to James. No one else would go.

James was a powerful man, and had won his way to an officer's berth by endeavor, not by nepotism. His hope was that he might be killed in the struggle. He dared anything, tried to do the impossible—and did it. How he succeeded in clearing away the wreck of that mast remains a mystery to those who watched him. He was almost dead when dragged back and the schooner floated clear.

The girl had seen the whole affair from the glass of the companionway. She had held her breath, almost fainted again and again at the sight of James in that fight for life. To her it was simply grand, tremendous—she had never been touched by a man's heroism before.

When it was all over and the schooner, dismantled and storm-driven, lay riding down the giant seas that swept around the Horn in the Pacific Antarctic Drift, she watched over and attended the officer as he lay in his bunk with a broken arm, a cut across the head, and the toes of one foot gone. She knew that there was something behind the will to do as James had done. But she could not fathom it, could not tell why he was unresponsive. He lay silent mostly, and seldom looked at her. Yet he was sane in his conversation, not delirious in any way. It worried her. It caused that peculiar thing that is in every woman to make the man she admires responsive. And the more she showed her feelings, the less he seemed to care. It ended the way it usually does under such conditions. She fairly worshiped him.

After that storm the weather grew very calm. The dark ocean seemed to be at rest for a spell. The schooner was now to the south'ard of the Falklands, and the captain decided that he would not venture around the Horn in the desperate condition he was in. Stanley Harbor was under his lee, and he bore away for it. Then, with the perversity of the southern zone, the wind hauled to the eastward and blew steadily for a week; blew right in their faces.

James came on deck before they were within a hundred miles of the land. He sat about in the cold of the evening wrapped up in rugs, and the girl waited upon him, brought him anything he wished. In the long hours of daylight—for it was light enough to read until midnight—they sat near the taffrail. The captain said nothing; he would not notice. He liked the man who had saved his ship. The girl was sympathetic, and James often held her hand. She did not attempt to withdraw it.

But he would not tell her he cared for her. That was absurd. He had already sacrificed his life. He was as good as dead. Yet he wondered at the passion that had brought him into such desperate trouble and had caused so much ruin and death. He pondered silently, and now often watched the girl furtively.

Into the beautiful harbor, the great fiord of Port Stanley, they came, the schooner making fairly good way in spite of her crippled condition. Her arrival was greeted with joyous acclaim by the land sharks, who smelled the wound and saw the damage. They would make a good haul. Ships didn't come often—but when they did, well, they paid.

The governor was notified of the arrival. He was told everything but the relation of the passengers to the ships to which they originally belonged. The master was generous; and, besides, it was not America they were now in. It was an outlying foreign colony at the edge of the world, a place where one seldom went or heard from. They might go ashore if they wished. The seaman asked to remain aboard. He was allowed to do so, and consequently did not go ashore and talk too much.

James passed that last night in high spirits. He was going out on his last voyage. He was going to die, going to leave the woman who he knew loved him, who had been so sympathetic, so lovable. They were on deck a long time that evening, and the captain, being wise and old enough to understand, did not molest them.

"Good night," she said finally. "Good night. I'll see you to-morrow before we go ashore. We can take the ship across to the straits, and meet the regular liner as she comes through from Punta Arenas. We'll be home again in a few weeks."

"Good-by," he said simply. That was all. She went below.

Shortly after four bells—two o'clock in the morning—James, with set face and grim resolution, stole on deck. He gazed up at the Southern Cross for a few moments, at the beautiful constellation that he would see for the last time; then at the grim, barren hills back of the settlement.

It was a farewell look, his farewell to things in this world. He was determined not to be disgraced. He would die like a man, as he could no longer live like one.

Then he dropped softly over the side, and sank down—down into the quiet waters of Stanley Harbor.

The instinct of woman is often more certain than her reason. The girl had noticed something strange in the man's behavior. She had woman's instinct to divine its cause. She had not gone to bed that night, but waited to see just what might happen to the man who owned her very soul. She had not realized before that she loved this officer, this man who had confessed partly to his disgrace. The realization awakened her wits. She would see what he meant.

At the slight splash, she was on deck in an instant. Her first thought was to call for help. Then she knew to do so was to call for an explanation; and she realized the disgrace that would follow instantly upon the explanation. She seized a life buoy always hanging upon the taffrail, and with it dropped over the side.

She swam silently toward a spot that showed disturbed water rapidly drifting astern with the tide. Within a minute she had reached the form of James, who had not placed enough weights in his clothes to insure quick sinking. He was lying silently upon his back, waiting—waiting for the end that must come shortly.

"Swim with me," she pleaded. "You must—come with me—we'll swim ashore together."

Before the morning dawned, the pair were upon the beach, several miles distant from the schooner. James saw he was doomed to life. He could not even die. Then the beauty of the woman, the sympathy, the love he could not deny, had its way with him, and they decided to vanish into the country, to disappear together.

This might or might not have been hard to do in the islands where every one is well known. But it happened that Captain Black, of the whaling station situated near the entrance of the fiord, was on deck that morning. He saw an amazing thing, a woman and a man swimming together, and finally making the land near the point.

Calling a couple of men, he started for them in his whaleboat, and caught up with them before they had gone more than a few fathoms from the shore. They were chilled through, cold and exhausted. He took them aboard the whaling steamer, and soon saw that he had a seaman of parts in Mr. James. Men were hard to get. All of his crews were convicts or ticket-of-leave men; and the addition of a man even with a wife was something to be taken advantage of.

He took James aside and asked him a few questions. He was satisfied that he would not get into trouble by giving the officer a billet; and he forthwith made him one of the company in charge of a small boat. The affair would be kept secret, and the governor would be told nothing. He probably would not ask too many questions, anyhow.

"I shall ship you both to the north'ard station, fifty miles up the coast. You can have a shack there—plenty of peat for fires and good grub—I'll inspect you once a month. Johnson will be in charge of the station. You can take this letter to him. Your wife can go with you if you wish."

James looked at the girl. She nodded her head.

"Is there a priest about here?" asked James.

"Yes. Why?" asked Black."Well, if you'll kindly send for him, he can marry us before we start."

Back of the northward station, on the ramp that rises sheer back from the beach like a table-land, there are a few cottages. These are occupied by the crews of the whaling station and their families. In one of them is a handsome woman with two little tots—happy-faced and smiling she is. But she seems a bit out of place in her surroundings. Mrs. James Smith they call her, and she is apparently very happy, very happy indeed, in spite of it all.

James Smith is the best gun pointer in the fleet, the best harpooner with the gun-firing harpoon. He is a sober, quiet, steady man, who has nothing now of the ship's officer about him. He never talks of wrecks. If some one starts a conversation regarding them—and they are much hoped for in the Falklands—he goes away.

Sometimes in Jack's saloon down at Stanley, he has been known to sit and stare out over the dark ocean, to sit and often mutter:

"Was it right, after all—was it worth while—was it?"

But he is a sober, quiet, industrious man, who goes about his duties without enthusiasm, without effort.