“By the way, what of Monsieur de Poincilit?” said Courtenay. “I saw him come aboard with Malcolm, but he dived into the saloon, and has not reappeared. Is he ill?”

Gray’s mouth set like a steel trap; his eyes had a glint in them. He seemed to be unwilling to speak; when words came, they were cold and measured.

“I haven’t any use for that fellow,” he said. “I suppose the unpleasant story must be told sooner or later, so here goes. In the first place, Poincilit forgot that I understood Spanish, and I heard him yelping to the Chileans in the jolly-boat that if we took any more people on board we should be swamped. It was he who put the notion in their heads to cast off while you were lowering Miss Baring’s maid into my arms. I tried to forget that, as he was blue-white with fear, and some fellows are not responsible for their actions when their liver melts. But I can never forget his action on the island. Yesterday morning I was just in time to stop him and four others from sneaking off in the life-boat with all our provisions.”

Courtenay’s face hardened too.

“Necessity may have no laws,” said he; “but I fancy I should have found a code to meet his case.”

“I have organized a Vigilance Committee in my time, and its articles kind of fitted in,” was the American’s quiet reply. “That is why I have a few recent knife-cuts distributed about my skin; I began to shoot and we were two short on the muster roll next day. De Poincilit ran, and fell on his knees. So did a skunk of an Italian, and I did not want to waste cartridges. They were tied back to back until we sailed to-day.”

“And the fifth?”

“The fifth was a woman.”

“Huh!” Boyle reached out for a bottle of wine and refilled his glass. For a little while there was silence. Then Courtenay muttered:

“Poor devil of a Count! ‘She gave me of the tree and I did eat.’ Did he blame the woman?”

“Well, yes. But it was a mean business, any how.”

“Better sponge it off the slate, eh?”

“I agree heartily. Drink up, Boyle, and pass the buck. I have a five years’ thirst.”

They talked until day-break; then Courtenay turned in. He did not appear on deck again until noon. By that time the Kansas had lost all marks of the fight excepting the smashed windows, and a sailor who understood the glazier’s art was replacing the broken glass. Making the round of the ship, the captain found Elsie sitting with Isobel and Mrs. Somerville on the promenade deck. She was binding Joey’s foot, and he knew then why the dog had scampered off on three legs as soon as the cabin door was opened.

The girl colored very prettily the moment she set eyes on her lover. Memories of the previous night became exceedingly vivid. She was adorably shy, Courtenay thought. As he approached, he debated the manner of his greeting; being a sailor, he did not hesitate.

Lifting his cap with a smile and a general “Good morning,” he bent over Elsie.

“Well,” he said, “surely you owe me at least one kiss?”

If her cheeks were red before they became scarlet now. But his kindling glance had warned her that he would adopt no pretence, so she lifted her face to his, though she did not dare to look at her amazed companions. Courtenay explained matters quite coolly.

“If Elsie has not told you already, it is my privilege to announce that she and I have signed articles,” he said with a smile. “That is, we intend to get married as soon as the ship reaches England.”

“Indeed, I congratulate you both most heartily,” said the missionary’s wife.

“Events have marched, then, while we were stranded on that wretched island?” tittered Isobel. Her voice was rather shrill. She, too, was excited, not quite mistress of herself. She did not know how far Gray’s statements might have prejudiced her with the captain; she had already sent de Poincilit a note urging him to deny absolutely all knowledge of the plot to steal the boat, and attribute the American’s summary action to his mistaken rendering of the Spanish patois used by the Chilean sailors.

“Yes,” laughed Courtenay, ready to put her at ease. “One crowds the events of a month into a day under some conditions. Last night, for instance, I had five minutes’ amusement with a steampipe and a double-barrelled gun which will serve all my requirements in the way of physical exercise for a long time to come.”

“You feel sure that we shall see no more of the Indians?” asked Isobel, quickly.

“I think so. One never can tell, but if they have the grit to attack us again I shall regard them as first-class fighters.”

“Dr. Christobal says they have an astonishing power of bearing pain without flinching,” said Elsie, plunging into the talk with a hot eagerness. “The Alaculofs in the fore cabin were afraid of him, thinking he meant to kill them, but, when they found that he wished only to dress their wounds, they followed his actions with a curious interest, as though he were tending some other person’s hurts and not their own. And that reminds me. He told me you ought to have that cut on your forehead washed. Let me look at it.”

She stood up, and placed the dog on a chair. Lifting Courtenay’s cap she brushed back his hair with her fingers, and found that he had covered an ugly scar with a long strip of skin plaster. The tense anxiety in Isobel’s face forthwith yielded to sheer bewilderment. These two were behaving with the self-possession of young people who regard the “engagement” stage as a venerable institution.

Of course Courtenay liked to be fondled in this manner. Elsie was at her best as a ministering angel. But he protested against the need of the doctor’s precaution.

“No, no,” he cried, “you already have one faithful patient in Joey. I wonder he did not wake me earlier so that he might rush off to you. I never have known him play the old soldier before. To see him curled up there, gazing at you with those pathetic eyes, who would think that his teeth met in Alaculof sinews last night? Twice, to my knowledge, he saved my life. And the way he dodged blows aimed at him was something marvelous. He used all four paws then, I assure you.”

“Ah, yes,” agreed Elsie, blushing again as she recalled the scene in the saloon. “He could have told me the Indians were aboard long before I knew it myself. Dr. Christobal deceived me so admirably that I am not sure yet if I have forgiven him.”

“He is a first-rate chap in an emergency,” said Courtenay, “though I have a bone to pick with him, too. He promised to call me at eight o’clock, but I expect he and Boyle, or Tollemache, conspired to let me sleep on. I was astounded when I saw the time. What do you think of a skipper who lies abed all the morning, Miss Baring?”

“Gray has told him nothing,” she decided at once. “That is very nice of Gray. I must thank him.” But she replied instantly, in her piquant way:

“Elsie certainly kept us in the dark about her fianÇailles, Captain Courtenay; but has not been silent as to your other achievements. If you were not telling us that you have actually slept, I should have cherished the belief that you had not closed an eyelid since the ship struck.”

Isobel meant to be on her best behavior. Her pact with the Frenchman was discreditable but smooth words might restrain tongues from wagging until she could leave the ship. Moreover, the vicissitudes of life in these later days were not without their effect. She had known what it was to suffer. She had seen men dying like cattle in the shambles. The shadow of eternity had fallen so closely that twice during the preceding night she was rudely awaked by the shrieking fear of a too vivid dream. These things were not the butterfly flutterings of sunlit Valparaiso. They were of a more ardent order, and her wings had not yet recovered from the singeing.

Courtenay, willing to maintain a fiction which evidently gave her relief, answered lightly that he yet had to earn these compliments, but he hoped to be able soon to fix a date when everybody might bombard him with the nicest phrases they could think of, and end the embarrassing ordeal once for all.

“I went through something of the sort last year on board the Florida,” he added. “People insist on regarding it as marvelous that a man should strive to do his simple duty.”

Suddenly it occurred to him that the topic was unpleasantly analogous to the little French count’s cowardly escapades. If one talks of duty, and recognizes its prior claim, what of the man who, in his selfish frenzy, is prepared to leave others to their fate, whether on a wrecked ship or a barren island? So he turned to Elsie again.

“By the way, you have never seen those letters,” he said. “I was hunting for them when the alarm was raised last night. Shall I bring them now?”

Elsie gave him a glance of subtle meaning. Her eyes telegraphed “What matters it whether I see them to-day or in half a century? Do I not trust you?” But she only murmured:

“Not now, I am telling Mrs. Somerville and Isobel all the news.”

He squeezed her shoulder. Any excuse would serve for those slight pettings which mean so much during early days in wonderland.

“Then I shall resume my rounds. I expect to be received reproachfully by Walker. He made great progress yesterday. Let me whisper a secret. Then you may pass it on, in strictest confidence.”

He placed his lips close to her ear.

“I am dreadfully in love with you this morning,” he breathed.

“That is no secret,” she retorted.

“It is. You and I together must daily find new paths in Eden. But my less poetic tidings should be welcome, also. Walker says he hopes to get steam up to-morrow.”

“Well, tell us quickly,” cried Isobel, with a show of intense interest, when Courtenay had gone. She had decided on a line of conduct, and meant to follow it carefully. The more sympathy she extended towards her friend’s love idyll, the less likelihood was there of disagreeable developments in other respects. That trick of calculating gush was Isobel’s chief failing. She was so wrapped up in self that her own interests governed every thought. Courtenay’s reference to letters sent a wave of alarm pulsing through each nerve. Though his manner betokened that the affair was something which concerned Elsie alone, she was on fire until she learnt that his “secret” alluded to the restored vitality of the ship.

For once, her expressions of gratitude were heartfelt. Mrs. Somerville even wept for joy. This poor woman after living twenty-five years in the oasis of a mission-house, was a strange subject for storm-tossed wandering and fights with cannibals. Seldom has fate conspired with the fickle sea to sport with such helpless human flotsam, save, perhaps, in that crowning caprice of the waves which once cast ashore a live baby in a cradle.

But the baby’s emotions were crude, and probably in no wise connected with the tremors of ship-wreck, whereas Mrs. Somerville, during these full days, was constantly asking herself how it could be possible that she was living at all.

“It will be a real manifestation of Providence if we ever reach England again,” she cried, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. “I’m sure John and I have said so many a time during the past week. To think of the ship’s blowing up in the way she did, it makes me all of a tremble, it does.”

“Oh,” broke in Elsie, thinking that the information she possessed would help to calm the older woman, “we have made a good many discoveries since—since the boat went away without me, I mean. But do tell me, how did those horrid Chileans manage to cast off the tackle before Mr. Gray or some of the other men were able to stop them? Of course, it is matterless now, in a sense, but at that moment it looked like leaving those on the ship to certain death.”

Mrs. Somerville was stricken dumb. The American’s shooting of two men on White Horse Island had naturally called for a complete explanation on his part, and she did not know how to answer Elsie’s question. Before she could gather her wits, Isobel intervened.

“If you had been in that boat, dear,” she said sweetly, “you would realize the topsy-turvy condition of our brains. Even Mr. Gray himself, the coolest man on board, imagined we might sink any moment. So what can you expect of those excitable Chileans? Besides, the thing was done so quickly that we were swept away by the tide before any one fully understood what was happening. Anyhow, you had the best of it, as events transpired. What are the discoveries you spoke of?”

“Well, some one placed dynamite among the coal.”

“But who would do such a thing?”

“That is hard to say. The captain believes that the culprit will be found out through the insurance policies. He and the others were discussing the affair one day in the chart-house—soon after the dynamite cartridges were discovered—and you cannot tell how surprised I was to hear him mention Ventana’s name in connection with it.”

“Ventana’s name!”

The blood ebbed away from Isobel’s cheeks, leaving her pallid as a statue. There was a gasp in her voice which startled her own ears. Lest her agitation should be noted too keenly, she bent forward and propped her face on her clenched hands, staring fixedly at the distant cliffs in a supreme effort to appear apathetic. Elsie heard that dry sob, but her friend’s seeming indifference misled her.

“Yes,” she said, wondering a little whether or not Christobal’s veiled hint regarding a by-gone tenderness between the two might account for Isobel’s hysterical outburst on the night of the ship’s break-down. Indeed, so warm-hearted was she that she hesitated a moment before continuing; but she felt that it would be altogether better for Isobel to be prepared for the revelations which the successful end of the ship’s voyage would assuredly bring forth. So, pondering unspoken thoughts the while, she told the others exactly what Tollemache, Christobal and Courtenay had said, and even revealed to them that which Courtenay himself did not yet know.

“You remember the poor fellow who got into trouble soon after we sailed from Valparaiso?” she said. “His name is Frascuelo. He was wounded again in last night’s fight, but not seriously, and he and I are quite chums. He assures me that he was drugged by a man named JosÉ Anacleto, who took his place among the coal-trimmers—”

“Oh, Miss Maxwell, come quick!” screamed Mrs. Somerville, for Isobel had lurched sideways out of her chair in a fainting fit, and the missionary’s wife was barely able to save her head from striking the ship’s rails.

Joey was shot out of Elsie’s lap with such surprising speed that he trotted away without any exhibition of lameness. He was quite disgusted, for at least five minutes, but it is reasonable to suppose that a dog of his intelligence would brighten up when he heard the wholly unlooked-for story which Christobal was translating to Courtenay, word for word, as it was dragged hesitatingly out of Suarez.

The Argentine miner had been badly injured during the struggle for possession of the promenade deck. Owing to loss of consciousness, supplemented by an awkward fall, he might have choked to death had he not been rescued within a few minutes. He was very ill all night, and it was not until midday that he recovered sufficient strength to enable him to question the Indians on board.

Courtenay wished specially to find out what chance, if any, there was of the Alaculof attack being renewed. When Christobal assured him that Suarez might safely leave his bunk, he asked the doctor to bring the Spaniard to the fore-cabin, in which the wounded savages lay under an armed guard.

It was obvious that some of the maimed wretches recognized Suarez, notwithstanding his changed appearance, the instant he spoke to them. At once they broke out into an excited chattering, and Suarez was so disconcerted by the tidings they conveyed that he stammered a good deal, and seemed to flounder in giving the Spanish rendering.

“This fellow is telling us just as much as he thinks it is good for us to know,” said Courtenay, sternly, when the interpreter avoided his accusing gaze. “Bid him out with the whole truth, Christobal, or it shall be his pleasing task to escort his dear friends back to their family circles.”

Being detected, Suarez faltered no longer. A ship’s life-boat had been driven ashore lower down the coast. Fourteen men had landed; they were captured by the Indians, after a useless resistance, in which three were killed. The dead men supplied a ghoulish feast next day, and the others were bound securely, and placed in a cave, in order to be killed at intervals, an exact parallel to the fate of Suarez’s own companions five years earlier.

But, on this occasion, a woman intervened. Suarez confessed, very reluctantly, that there was a girl in the tribe to whom he had taught some words of his own language. He said that she cooked for him, and caught fish or gathered shell-fish for their joint needs when the larder was otherwise empty. He declared that the relations between them were those of master and servant, but the poor creature had fallen in love with him, and had become nearly frantic with grief when he disappeared. It was difficult to analyze her motives, but she had undoubtedly freed the eleven sailors, and led them over the rocks at low water to the haunted cave on Guanaco Hill. The Indians dared not follow; but they took good care that no canoes were obtainable in which the unhappy fugitives could reach the ship, and they were confident that hunger would soon drive them forth.

Courtenay’s brow became black with anger when he understood the significance of this staggering story.

“It comes to this,” he said to Christobal. “The men who got away from the Kansas in No. 3 life-boat fell into the hands of the savages early on the day of the ship’s arrival here. Suarez slipped his cable that night, being aware at the time that eleven white captives were still alive. Yet he said no word, not even when he heard that we had seen one of the boat’s water-casks in a canoe. He, a Christian, bolted and remained silent, while some poor creature of a woman risked her life, and ran counter to all her natural instincts, in the endeavor to save the men of his own race. What sort of mean hound can he be?”

Suarez needed no translation to grasp the purport of Courtenay’s words. He besought the seÑor captain to have patience with him. He had escaped from a living tomb, and felt that he would yield up his life rather than return. Therefore, when he saw how few in number and badly armed were they on board the ship, he thought it best to remain silent as to the fate of the boat’s crew. In the first place, he fully expected that they had been killed by the Indians, who would be enraged by his own disappearance. Secondly, he alone knew how hopeless any attempt at a rescue must prove. Finally, he wished to spare the feelings of those who had befriended him; of what avail were useless mind-torturings regarding the hapless beings in the hands of the savages?

There was a certain plausibleness in this reasoning which curbed Courtenay’s wrath, though it in no way diminished the disgust which filled his soul. What quality was there lacking in the Latin races which rendered them so untrustworthy? His crew had mutinied, de Poincilit was ready to consign his companions in misfortune to a most frightful death on the barren island, and here was Suarez hugging to his breast a ghastly secret which chance alone had brought to light. He strove hard to repress the contempt which rose in his gorge, as it was essential that the broken-spirited miner should not be frightened out of his new-born candor.

“Ask him to ascertain if the Indians believe the white men are still living?” he said. A fresh series of grunts and clicks elicited the fact that the smoke-column seen the previous day on Guanaco Hill had not been created by the tribe. Suarez begged the seÑor captain to remember that he had spoken truly when he declared that its meaning was unknown to him. Probably, from what he now learnt, the girl who threw in her lot with the sailors had built a fire there.

Courtenay turned on his heel and quitted the cabin. The smell of the Indians was loathsome, the mere sight of Suarez offensive. For this discovery had overcast the happiness of his wooing as a thunder-cloud darkens and blots the smiling life out of a fair valley. There rushed in on him a hundred chilling thoughts, each gloomier than its forerunner. Ravens croaked within him; misshapen imps whispered evil omens; his spirit sat in gloom.

Christobal, well knowing how the demons of doubt and despair were afflicting Courtenay, followed him to the upper deck. Boyle was in the chart-house and Tollemache. Each man noted the captain’s troubled face; from him they glanced towards the doctor; but the Spaniard had undergone his purgatory some hours earlier; his thin features were now quite expressionless.

Courtenay obtained a telescope. With the tact which never failed him, even in such a desperate crisis as this, he handed the doctor his binoculars. Then, both men looked at the summit of Guanaco Hill. Though it was high noon, and the landscape was shimmering in the heat-mist created by the unusual power and brilliance of the sun, they distinctly saw a thin pillar of smoke rising above the trees. Courtenay closed his telescope. He made to approach Boyle, evidently for the purpose of giving some order, when Christobal said quietly:

“Wait! I have something to say to you. You ought to remain on the ship. Let me go!”

“You?”

“Yes, I. After all, it is only a matter of taking command. One man cannot go alone. He could not even pull the life-boat so far. Hence, what you can do I can do, and I have no objection to dying in that way.”

“Why should either of us die?”

“You know better than I how little chance there is of saving those men. You may deem me callous if I suggest that the reasonable thing would be to forget the miserable statement you have just heard. Oh, please hear me to the end. I am not talking for your sole benefit, believe me. Greatly as I and all on board are beholden to you, I do not propose giving my life in your stead because of my abounding admiration for your many virtues. Well, then since you are so impatient as to be almost rude, I come straight to the point. If you take command of a boat’s crew and endeavor to save the men imprisoned over there, you will almost certainly throw away your life and the lives of those who help you. In that event, a lady in whom we are both interested will suffer grievously. On the other hand, if I were killed, she would weep a little, because she has a large heart, but you would console her. And the odd thing is that you and I are fully aware that either you or I must go off on this fool’s errand. There is none other to take the vacant place. Now, have I made myself clear?”

“You are a good fellow, Christobal. You revive my faith in human nature, and that is my best apology if I irritated you just now by my attitude. But don’t you see that I can neither accept your generous offer nor sail away from our harbor of refuge without making an attempt to save my men?”

“They are not your men. They forfeited your captaincy by their own action. In the effort to succor them you will lose at least one life which is precious to all on board this ship. I am twice your age, Courtenay, and I affirm unhesitatingly that you are wrong.”

“Yet you are ready to take my place?”

“I have given you my reasons.”

“They do you honor; but you would fail where I might succeed. You are not a sailor. Brave as I know you to be, you are not physically fitted for the rough work which may be needed. I think, too, you exaggerate the risk. The Alaculofs are broken by last night’s failure. They will not dare to face us.”

“At least spare me an argument which does not convince yourself; otherwise you would depute me instantly for the service.”

“Well, you force plain speaking. While I command the Kansas I am responsible for the well-being of the ship, her crew, and her passengers. I could never forgive myself if I left those men to the mercy of the Indians. I cannot permit either you or Tollemache to take a risk which I shirk. Boyle and Walker must remain on board—lest I fail. Now, Christobal, don’t make my duty harder. Shake hands! I am proud to claim you as a friend.”

“Huh!” said Boyle, strolling towards them. “What is it? A bet?”

“Yes,” laughed Courtenay, from whose face all doubt had vanished; “a bet, indeed, and you hold the stakes. Have you seen the smoke signal yonder?” and he pointed across the bay.

“Yes. Tollemache found it again, twenty minutes since.”

“It means that eleven of our men are there, expecting us to save them. Hoist the ship’s answering pennant from the main yard swung out to starboard. Build a small fire on the poop and throw some oil and lampblack on it. If they don’t recognize the pennant they will understand the smoke. Get some food and water stowed in the life-boat, and offer five pounds a head to six men who will volunteer for a trip ashore.”

“I go in charge, of course, sir?” said Boyle.

“You remain here, and take command during my absence. I want two revolvers for a couple of the crew, and I shall take my own gun. Please make all arrangements promptly. I am going to my cabin for five minutes, and shall start immediately afterwards.”

This was the captain speaking. His tone admitted of no contention. Boyle hurried off, and Courtenay went into his quarters.

“What do you think of it?” Christobal asked Tollemache, as the latter appeared to be sauntering after the chief officer.

“Rot!” said Tollemache.

“But what can we do? He is committing suicide.”

“One must do that occasionally. It’s rotten, but it can’t be helped.”

Christobal threw out his hands in a despairing gesture. “I tried to stop him, but I failed,” he cried.

“Courtenay is a hard man to stop,” said Tollemache, vanishing down the companion. The Spaniard was left alone on the bridge. He paced to and fro, deep in thought. He scarce dared probe his own communings. So complex were they, such a queer amalgam of noble fear and base expectation, that he could have cried aloud in his anguish. Big drops of perspiration stood on his forehead when Courtenay came to him.

“For God’s sake, don’t go,” said he hoarsely. “Do you know you are placing me on the rack?”

“Your sufferings are of your own contriving, then. Why, man, there is no reason for all this agony. I have written to Elsie, briefly explaining matters. Here is the letter. Give it to her, if I don’t return. And now, pull yourself together. I want you to cheer her. Above all things, don’t let her know I am leaving the ship. I’ll just swing myself overboard at the last moment. I can’t say good-by. I don’t think I could stand that.”