rosperous."

CHAPTER X

MARY KAVANAGH

A number of men with sore heads and dry mouths made their way to the top
of the cliff, across the barrens and into a thin belt of spruces. There
they worked as well as they could at cutting timber for Father McQueen's
church. They were a dolorous company. The daring spirit of mutiny had
passed away, leaving behind it the fear of the skipper. The courage,
uplift and inspiring glow of the brandy had ebbed and evaporated,
leaving the quaking stomach, the swimming brain, the misty eye. They
groaned as they hacked at the trees, for the desire to lie down on the
cold snow was heavy upon them; but still they hacked away, for the fear
of Black Dennis Nolan, the unconquerable, was like a hot breath upon
their necks. They said some bitter things about Dick Lynch.

The skipper visited the wreck, accompanied by Bill Brennen and a few of
the men and boys who had not taken part in yesterday's mutiny. The sea
was almost flat and there was no wind. The hatches were broken open; and
what they could see of the _Royal William's_ cargo looked entirely
satisfactory to them--sail-cloth, blankets, all manner of woollen and
cotton goods, boots and shoes, hams, cheeses and tinned meats. Though
some of these things were damaged by the salt water, few of them were
ruined by it. They worked all day at winching out the cargo. Next day,
the men who had cooled their sore heads in the woods were also put to
work on the stranded ship. With timbers and tarpaulins from the ship
they built a storehouse on the barren, in the midst of a thicket of
spruces. In the two days they managed to save about a quarter of the
cargo. The skipper drove them hard, an iron belaying pin in his hand and
slashing words always on his lips. But even the dullest of them saw that
he neither drove, cursed nor threatened Bill Brennen, Nick Leary or any
of the men who had kept out of the mutiny. Most of the stuff that was
salvaged was put in the new store, but a few hundreds of pounds of it
were carried to the harbor.

During these two days the skipper did not once set eyes on the girl he
had saved from the fore-top. Mother Nolan would not let him approach
within two yards of the door of the room in which she lay. It seemed,
from Mother Nolan's talk, that the beautiful stranger was always
sleeping. But, through the old woman, he learned her name. It was Flora
Lockhart.

When the skipper and Cormick reached home after the second