The invaders, led by the same whiskered Russian who had peered through the porthole, swept around the deck and crashed through the door leading to the galley cabin.

It was a mad wave of victory for them. They brought surprise and determination as their allies, and were in great numbers. Already they had mopped up the anchor watch and some of the crew who had climbed from the forecastle.

Stirling, rooted to the spot where he had faced his accusers, for the first time in his life felt the grip of fear. He saw Whitehouse felled with a descending swing of a giant club, and the second engineer staggered toward the table with a knife through his breast.

A Kanaka harpooner, whose gin-dulled brain refused to act, dashed into the midst of the inpouring horde and went down, the centre of a wave of infuriated invaders. One hooked-nose boat steerer, noted for his mildness of manner, became crazed, snatched a harpoon from the wall of the cabin, and drove it through a Russian's neck. He, too, was downed and then killed with heavy clubs.

This resistance stemmed the wave of Russians for a moment. Marr shouted shrilly. He was answered by a Russian, who shouted instruction from the doorway. Stones were hurled through the length of the cabin; capstan bars were raised; the invaders faced the survivors, and prepared to charge Stirling and the little skipper who had found common cause in resistance.

Mechanically, Stirling reached downward and grasped the tiny revolver, though afterward he had no recollection of the action. The gun steadied his nerves as he glanced at it, and then into the peering faces gathered about the doorway and the after end of the cabin.

He fired with coolness, and six jets of flame flashed across the table and seared the faces before him. Russians went down as if poleaxed, others shouted in pain, and two backed away covering their faces with their arms.

Stirling reloaded the revolver with clumsy fingers. The action was new to him; the time was short. He wondered as he waited for coolness to return how it happened that the cartridges were in his breast, since the Kanaka had searched him in the after cabin. They had been overlooked.

Marr coughed in the acrid mist and shouted out through a porthole. He was answered by a Russian imprecation; a face peered in and a whale lance darted through the opening. It missed the skipper by inches.

He backed and touched Stirling's arm. "Kill them!" he cried. "Kill them, Stirling!"

The shout was a signal to the dock rats and sea scum who had crouched in the gloom of the cabin. They advanced with heads lowered and rude weapons snatched from the deck. One hurled a gin bottle into the face of a Russian who stood half in and half out of the door. This sign of defiance brought the wrath of the horde down upon the defenders. A jagged rock hurtled through the porthole and crashed against the electric dome in the ceiling. The falling glass tinkled upon the table, and darkness blotted out Stirling's view of what followed. It was a press of mad men who would not be denied, and he fired without knowing whether he struck Russians or the remnant of the Pole Star's crew.

He stepped back and felt about with his left hand. His fingers touched a wall, and following this he came to the end of a table where he stumbled over the body of a Kanaka. Rising, he worked forward and found the knob of a door which led into the cook's kitchen. This door was locked, and he bunched his shoulders for a crashing blow.

The Russians had advanced in the gloom of the shambles and were feeling about for Marr and the others of the crew who had escaped their onslaught. Now and then a loud cry marked a victim. A Russian thrust inward the smoking end of a torch made out of rope yarn. It flared and died to a glow.

Stirling stepped away from the door, lowered his shoulder, and lunged forward with all the weight of his well-nourished body behind the blow. He rebounded, crouched, lunged for a second time, and the door splintered on the port side and tore loose from its chamfer.

Hurtling through to the kitchen and stumbling over an assortment of clanging pans, Stirling found the second door which led to the deck. This, also, was locked. He crashed his foot against a lower panel, and the wood splintered, making an opening sufficient to pass through. He crawled out like a determined bear and stood erect, his great chest rising and falling as he gulped the air of the night.

Chaos ruled the after part of the ship, and heavy blows sounded forward where the invaders were mopping out the forecastle. Bodies were hurtled overside, the last cries of doomed men echoing and reËchoing among the rocks of the shore and awakening the sea birds nested there.

A deep silence followed the slaying of the crew. Stirling crouched in the shelter of the galley house where the cook's pipe was thrust through the wall, then turned his eyes and stared aft.

The thought had come to him that the girl was alone in the cabin. Marr had been seen last fighting Russians who had invaded the galley room, and a show of resistance was still there. The lurking forms of men were about the door, but the waist of the ship seemed filled with men who had climbed aboard from out of the sea. These men were waiting for some signal.

It came with startling suddenness. Marr, the first engineer, and two seamen burst through the doorway, shouting defiance, and plunged straight for the poop and the shelter of the after cabins. One seaman and engineer were felled and dragged to death. Marr and the second seaman gained the poop steps, glanced forward, and vanished in the direction of the cabin companion.

This sally filled the ship with wild imprecations and cries, and Stirling was swirled in a maze of doubt. The quarter-deck was shadowed with climbing Russians; the forepeak and waist rocked with their feet as they searched about for survivors.

A thin tongue of flame from an after porthole burned through the night. A rapid hail of lead from a rifle spattered along the deck and splintered the woodwork. Marr had reached the ship's arsenal and was firing from the break of the poop into the Russian horde. The situation had changed during the period of seconds.

Before he had time to gauge the battle, Stirling heard the rush of men who were seeking safety behind the galley house and within the gloom of the whaleboats on the port side. He raised his revolver and emptied it along the deck. One shot went home; the others missed. He pocketed the weapon, faced about, and darted for the lee shrouds which led up to the crow's-nest. He then mounted the rail and climbed by the strength which was in his arms.

The vanguard of Russians leaped for his legs, but he drew himself up and worked toward the crow's-nest with beating heart. He reached the Jacob's ladder and went out instead of going through the lubber's hole. Here he turned and stared downward; the deck seemed far away; a whizzing belaying pin missed his head by many feet. He chuckled and touched his face with his hand. Blood was there from some unnoticed wound.

Whiskered faces showed through the gloom, and Stirling chuckled for a second time and climbed swiftly to the crow's-nest. Dropping inside, he pressed his chin to the edge of the nest and glanced toward the rocky wall which loomed over the ship. Other Russians were descending the trail that led to the shelving beach, and he watched a score more who were swimming through the dark waters of the harbour.

Suddenly all the fight went out of him, as water leaves a sponge. The odds were far too great—Marr and the seaman and the girl comprised the afterguard. They were well armed, but the invaders were in such number as to indicate the exodus of an army. They either had worked northward by land from Vladivostok, or, concluded Stirling, they had taken ships and been wrecked on the coast. This was a possibility, considering the remote locality of the Gulf of Anadir.

A call lifted upward from the dark side; Stirling turned away from the harbour view and looked downward. A revolutionist stood by the square outline of the after hatch, and he raised his arms.

Five Russians were climbing the starboard shrouds, each with a knife in hand. Each glared down at the man on the after hatch and then resumed climbing.

Stirling leaned farther out, steadied his revolver, sighted it in the half light, and blazed the night with a cone of leaping fire. He fired for a second time. One Russian let go his knife, spun on the ratlines, and dropped like a plummet to the deck below. The others hurried from their exposed position and crouched under the Jacob's ladder where a jack offered some shelter. Stirling waited for an open sight at these two.

The man near the hatch shouted an order. The two invaders grasped lines and slid to the deck. They landed clumsily and staggered for the gloom of the whaleboats. Stirling replaced his revolver in his pocket and sank back into the crow's-nest. The attack had steadied his nerves, and he felt secure for some time to come.

Dawn mantled the sky above the dark cliff's edge; a plume of flamingo red shot to the zenith, and the sun was peering over the Siberian tableland. It would not be long before the harbour would be illuminated sufficiently to reveal the state of chaos on the deck of the Pole Star.

The higher peaks of the mountains grew rosy and white. The light came on and down with pale shadowings, revealing the surface of the sea in ghastly detail. Seamen and Russians floated about like dead seals.

The deck was a shambles where Marr's lead had scattered the Russian horde. A hastily erected barricade at the after hatch prevented the little skipper from sweeping the entire deck. Behind this barricade the Russians crouched, and forward by the forecastle they swarmed in great numbers, having broken into the stores.

The men were crunching on ship's biscuits and drinking from square faces of gin.