Percival cultivated acquaintance with the two sailors, and tried to obtain from them some description of the passengers on board the Falcon. But description was not their forte. He gained nothing but a clumsy mass of separate facts concerning passengers and crew, which assisted him little in forming an opinion as to whether Brian Luttrell had, or had not, been on board. He was inclined to think—not.

"But he seemed to have a slippery habit of turning up in odd places where you don't in the least expect to find him," soliloquised Percival over a cigar. "Why couldn't he have stayed comfortably dead in that glacier? Or why did the brain fever not carry him off? He has as many lives as a cat. He, drowned or burnt when the Falcon was on fire? Not a bit of it. I'll believe in Mr. Brian Luttrell's death when I have seen him screwed into his coffin, followed him to the grave, ordered a headstone, and written his epitaph. And even then, I should feel that there was no knowing whether he had not buried himself under false pretences, and was, in reality, enjoying life at the Antipodes. I don't know anybody else who can be, 'like Cerberus, three gentlemen at once.' I shall nail him to one alias for the future, if I catch him. But there seems very little chance of my catching him at all. I've come on a wild-goose chase, and can't expect to succeed."

This mood of comparative depression did not last long. Percival felt certain that the other boat would be overtaken, or that Brian would be found to have sailed in another ship. He could not reconcile himself to any idea of returning to Elizabeth with his task half done.

They were nearing the Equator, and the heat of the weather was great. It was less fine, however, than was usually the case, and when Percival turned into his berth one night, he noticed that the stars were hidden, and that rain was beginning to fall. He slept lightly, and woke now and then to hear the swish of water outside, and the beat of the engines, the dragging of a rope, or the step of a sailor overhead. He was dreaming of Elizabeth, and that she was standing with him beside Brian Luttrell's grave, when suddenly he awoke with a violent start, and a sense that the world was coming to an end. In another moment he was out of his berth and on the floor. There had been a scraping sound, then a crash—and then the engines had stopped. There was a swaying sensation for a second or two, and then another bump. Percival knew instinctively what was the matter. The ship had struck.

After that moment's silence there was an outcry, a trampling of feet, a few minutes' wild confusion. The voice of the captain rose strong and clear above the hubbub as he gave his orders. Percival, already half-dressed, made his appearance on deck and soon learned what was the matter. The ship had struck twice heavily, and was now filling as rapidly as possible. The sailors were making preparations for launching the long boat. "Women and children first," said the captain, in his stentorian tones.

The noise subsided as he made his calm presence felt. The children cried, indeed, and a few of the women shrieked aloud; but the men passengers and crew alike, bestirred themselves to collect necessary articles, to reassure the timid, and to make ready the boats.

Percival was amongst the busiest and the bravest. His strength made him useful, and it was easier for him to use it in practical work than to stand and watch the proceedings, or even to console women and children. For one moment he had a deep and bitter sense of anger against the ordering of his fate. Was he to go down into the deep waters in the hey-day of his youth and strength, before he had done his work or tasted the reward of work well done? Had Brian Luttrell experienced a like fate? And what would become of Elizabeth, sitting lonely in the midst of splendours which she had felt were not justly hers, waiting for weeks and months and years, perhaps, for the lovers who would never come back until the sea gave up its dead?

Percival crushed back the thought. There was no time for anything but action. And his senses seemed gifted with preternatural acuteness. He saw a child near him put her little hand into that of a soldierly-looking man, and heard her whisper—"You won't leave me, papa?" And the answer—"Never, my darling. Don't fear." Just behind him a man whispered in a woman's ear—"Forgive me, Mary." Percival wondered vaguely what that woman had to forgive. He never saw any of the speakers again.

For a strange thing happened. Strange, at least, it seemed to him; but he understood it afterwards. The ship was really resting upon a ledge of the rock on which she had struck: there was little to be seen in the darkness except a white line of breakers and a mass of something beyond—was it land? The ship gave a sudden outward lurch. There went up a cry to Heaven—a last cry from most of the souls on board the ill-fated Arizona—and then came the end. The vessel fell over the edge of the rocky shelf into deep water and went down like a stone.

Percival was a good swimmer, and struck out vigorously, without any expectation, however, of being able to maintain himself in the water for more than a very short time. Escape from the tangled rigging and floating pieces of the wreck was a difficult matter; but the water was very calm inside the reef, and not at all cold. He tried to save a woman as she was swept past him: for a time he supported a child, but the effort to save it was useless. The little creature's head struck against some portion of the wreck and it was killed on the spot. Percival let the little dead face sink away from him into the water and swam further from the point where it went down.

"There must be others saved as well as myself," he thought, when he was able to think at all coherently. "At least, let me keep myself up till daylight. One may see some way of escape then." It had been three o'clock when the ship struck. He had remembered to look at his watch when he was first aroused. Would his strength last out till morning?

If his safety had depended entirely on his swimming powers he would have been, indeed in evil case. But long before the first faint streak of dawn appeared, it seemed to him that he was coming in contact with something solid—that there was something hard and firm beneath him which he could touch from time to time. The truth came to him at last. The tide was going down; and as it went down, it would leave a portion of the reef within his reach. There might be some unwashed point to which he could climb as soon as daylight came. At any rate, as the waters ebbed, he found that he could cling to the rock, and then, that he could even stand upon it, although the waves broke over him at every moment, and sometimes nearly washed him from his hold.

Never was daylight more anxiously awaited. It came at last; a faint, grey light in the east, a climbing flush of rose-colour, a host of crimson wavelets on a golden sea. And, as soon as the darkness disappeared, Percival found that his conjecture was a correct one. He was not alone. There were others beside himself who had won their way to even safer positions than his own. Portions of the reef on which the ship had struck were now to be plainly seen above the sea-level; it was plain that they were rarely touched by the salt water, for there was an attempt at vegetation in one or two places. And beyond the reef Percival saw land, and land that it would be easy enough to reach.

He turned to look for the remains of the Arizona, but there was little to be seen. The tops of her masts were visible only in the deep water near the reef. Spars, barrels, articles of furniture, could here and there be distinguished; nothing of value nor of interest. Percival determined to try for the shore. But first he would see whether he could help the other men whom he had discerned at a little distance from him on a higher portion of the reef.

He crept out to them, feeling his way cautiously, and not sure whether he might not be swept off his feet by the force of the waves. To his surprise, when he reached the two men, he found that they were two of the survivors from the wreck of the Falcon. One of them was Thomas Jackson, and the other was Mackay, the steerage passenger.

"It's plain you weren't born to be drowned," said Percival, addressing Jackson, familiarly.

"No, sir, it don't seem like it," returned the man. "There's one or two more that have saved themselves by swimming, too, I fancy. We'd better make land while we can, sir."

"Your friend's not able to help himself much, is he?" said Percival, with a sharp glance at the bearded face of the steerage passenger.

"Swims like a duck when he's all right, sir; but at present he's got a broken leg. Fainted just now; he'll be better presently. I wouldn't have liked to leave him behind."

"We'll haul him ashore between us," said Percival.

It was more easily said than done; but the task was accomplished at last. Thomas Jackson was of a wiry frame: Percival's trained muscles (he had been in the boats at Oxford) stood him in good stead. They reached the mainland, carrying the steerage passenger with them; for the poor man, not yet half-recovered from the effects of exposure and privation, and now suffering from a fracture of the bone just above the ankle, was certainly not in a fit state to help himself. On the island they found a few cocoa-nut trees: under one of these they laid their burden, and then returned to the shore to see whether there was any other castaway whom they could assist.

In this search they were successful. One man had already followed their example and swam ashore, but he was so much exhausted that they felt bound to help him to the friendly shade of the cocoa-nut trees, where the steerage passenger, now conscious of his position, and as deadly white with the pain of his broken bone as the discolouration of his scorched face permitted him to be, moved aside a little in order to make room for him. There was another man on the reef; but he had been crushed between the upper and lower topsails, and it was almost impossible to get him to shore. Percival and Jackson made the effort, but a great wave swept the man into a cavern of the reef to which he was clinging before they could come to his assistance, and he was not seen again. With a lad of sixteen and another sailor they were more fortunate. So that when at last they met under the tree to compare notes and count their numbers, they found that the party consisted of six persons: Heron, Thomas Jackson, and his pet, the steerage passenger; George Pollard, the steward; Fenwick, the sailor; and Jim Barry, the cabin boy. They stared at each other in rather helpless silence for about a minute, and then Heron burst into a strange laugh.

"Well, I've heard of a desert island all my life," he said, "but I never was on one before."

"I was," said Fenwick, slowly, "and I didn't expect to get landed upon another. But, Lord! if once you go to sea, there's no telling."

"You must feel thankful that you're landed at all," remarked Percival. "You might have been food for the fishes by this time."

"I'd most as soon," said Fenwick, in a stolid tone, which had a depressing effect on the spirits of some of the party. The lad Barry began to whimper a little, and Pollard looked very downcast.

"Cheer up, lads," said Percival, quickly. It was wonderful to see how naturally he fell into a position of command amongst them. "That isn't the way to get home again. Never fear but a ship will pass the island and pick us up. We can't be far out of the ordinary course of the steamers. We shall be here a day or two only, or a week, perhaps. What do you say, Jackson?"

Jackson drew the back of his hand across his mouth, and seemed to meditate a reply; but while he considered the matter, the steerage passenger spoke for the first time.

"Mr. Heron is right," he said, causing Percival a moment's surprise at the fact of his name being so accurately known by a man to whom he had never spoken either on board the Arizona or since they landed. "We all ought to feel thankful to Almighty God for bringing us safe to land, instead of grumbling that the island has no inhabitants. We have had a wonderful escape."

"And so say I, sir," said Jackson, touching an imaginary cap with his forefinger, while Barry and Fenwick both looked a little ashamed of themselves, and Pollard mechanically followed the example set by the sailor. "Them as grumbles had better keep out of my sight unless they want to be kicked."

"You're fine fellows, both of you," cried Percival, heartily. And then he shook hands with Jackson, and would have followed suit with the steerage passenger, had not Mackay drawn back his hand.

"I'm not in condition for shaking hands with anybody," he said, with a smile; and Percival remembered his burns and was content.

"I know this place," said Jackson, looking round him presently. "It's a dangerous reef, and there's been a many accidents near it. Ships give it a wide berth, as a general rule." The men's faces drooped when they heard this sentence. "The Duncan Dunbar was wrecked here on the way to Auckland. The Mercurius, coming back from Sydney by way of 'Frisco, she was wrecked, too—in '70. It's the Rocas Reef, mates, which you may have heard of or you may not; and, as near as I remember, it's about three degrees south of the Line: longitude thirty-three twenty, west."

"I remember now," said Percival, eagerly. His work as a journalist helped him to remember the event to which Jackson alluded. "The men of the Mercurius found some iron tanks filled with water, left by the Duncan Dunbar people. We might go and see if they are still here. But first we must attend to this man's leg."

"It is not very bad," said Mackay.

"It's tremendously swollen, at any rate. Are you good at this sort of work, Jackson? I can't say I am."

"I know something about it," said Jackson. "Let's have a look, mate."

He knelt down and felt the swollen limb, putting its owner to considerable pain, as Percival judged from the way in which he set his teeth during the operation. Jackson had, however, a tolerable knowledge of a rough sort of surgery, and managed to set the bone and bind up the swollen limb in a manner that showed skill and tenderness as well as knowledge. And then Percival proposed that they should try to find some food, and make the tour of the island before the day grew hotter. The leadership of the party had been tacitly accorded to him from the first; and, after a consultation with the others, Jackson stepped forward to say that they all wished to consider themselves under Mr. Heron's orders, "he having more head than the rest of them, and being a gentleman born, no doubt." At which Heron laughed good-humouredly and accepted the position. "And none of us grudge you being the head," said Jackson, sagely, "except, maybe, one, and he don't count." Heron made no response; but he wondered for a moment whether the one who grudged him his leadership could possibly be Mackay, whose eyes had a quiet attentiveness to all his doings, which looked almost like criticism. But there was no other fault to be found with Mackay's manner, while against Fenwick's dogged air Percival felt some irritation.

The want of food was decidedly the first difficulty. Sea-birds' eggs and young birds, shell-fish and turtle, were all easily to be obtained; but how were they to be cooked? Percival was not without hopes that some tinned provisions might be cast ashore from the wreck; but at present there was nothing of the kind to be seen. A few cocoa-nuts were procurable: and these provided them with meat and drink for the time being. Then came the question of fire. The only possible method of obtaining it was the Indian one of rubbing two sticks diligently together for the space of some two hours; and Thomas Jackson sat down with stoical patience worthy of an Indian himself to fulfil this operation.

Percival, who felt that he could not bear to be doing nothing, started off for a walk round the island, and the rest of the party dozed in the shade until the return of their leader.

When Heron came back he made his report as cheerful as he could, but he could not make it a particularly brilliant one, although he did his best. He was one of those men who grumble at trifles, but are unusually bright and cheerful in the presence of a great emergency. The sneer had left his face, the cynical accent had disappeared from his voice; he employed all his social gifts, which were naturally great, for the entertainment of his comrades. As they ate boiled eggs and fried fish and other morsels which seemed especially dainty when cooked over the fire that Jackson's patient industry had lighted at last, the spirits of the whole party seemed to rise; and Percival's determination to look upon the bright side of things, produced a most enlivening effect. Some of them remembered afterwards, with a sort of puzzled wonder, that they had more than once laughed heartily during their first meal upon the Rocas Reef.

Yet none of them were insensible to the danger through which they had passed, nor the terrible position in which they stood. Uppermost in the minds of each, although none of them liked to put it into words, was the question—How long shall we stay here? Is it likely that any ship will observe our signal of distress and come to our aid? They looked each other furtively in the eyes, and read no comfort in each other's face.

They had landed upon one of two islands, about fifteen acres each in size, which were separated at high water, but communicated with each other when the tide had ebbed. Both islands lay low, and had patches of white sand in the centre; but there was very little vegetation. Even grass seemed as if it would not grow; and the cocoa-nut trees were few and far between.

The signs of previous wrecks struck the men's hearts with a chill. There was a log hut, to which Mackay was moved when evening came on; there were the iron tanks of which Percival had made mention, filled with rain-water; there were some rotten boards, and a small hammer and a broken knife; but there was no fresh-water spring, and there were no provision chests, such as Heron had vainly hoped to find.

The setting up of a distress-signal on the highest point of the island was the next matter to be attended to; and for this purpose nothing could be found more suitable than a very large yellow silk-handkerchief which Percival had found in his pocket. It did not make a very large flag, although it was enormous as a handkerchief; but no other article of clothing could well be spared. Indeed, the spareness of their coverings was a matter of some regret and anxiety on Percival's part. He could not conceive what they were to do if they were on the island for more than a few days; the rough work which would be probably necessary being somewhat destructive of woollen and linen garments. Jackson, with whom he ventured a joke on the subject, did not receive it in very good part. "You needn't talk as if we was to stay here for ever, Mr. Heron, sir," he murmured. "But there's always cocoa-nut fibre, if the worst comes to the worst."

"Ah, yes, cocoa-nut fibre," said Percival, turning his eyes to one of the slim, straight stems of the palm trees. "I forgot that. I seem to have walked straight into one of Jules Verne's books. Gad! I wish I could walk out of it again. What a thrilling narrative I'll make of this for the Mail when I get home. If ever I do get home. Bah, it's no use to talk of that."

These reflections were made under his breath, while Jackson walked on to examine a nest of sea-birds' eggs; for Percival was wisely resolved against showing a single sign of undue anxiety or depression of spirits, lest it should re-act on the minds of those who had declared themselves his followers. For the rest of the day the party worked hard at various contrivances for their own welfare and comfort.

Firewood was collected; birds and fish caught for the evening meal. To each member of the party a task was assigned: even Mackay could make himself useful by watching the precious flame which must never be suffered to go out. And thus the day wore on, and night came with its purple stillness and its tropical wealth of stars.

The men sought shelter in the hut: Percival only, by his own choice, remained outside until he thought that they were sleeping. He wanted to be alone. He had banished reflection pretty successfully during the day; but at night he knew that it would get the better of him. And he felt that he must meet and master the thronging doubts and fears and regrets that assailed him. Whatever happened he would not be sorry that he had come. If he never saw Elizabeth's face again, he was sure that her memories of him would be full of tenderness. What more did he want? And yet he wanted more.

He found out what his heart desired before he laid himself down to sleep amongst the men. He would have given a year of his life to know whether Brian Luttrell was alive or dead. And he could not honestly say that he wished Brian Luttrell to be alive.