else an angel had come aboard to sing us clear of the fog. There were
three of us on the bridge--myself, and the third officer, Mr.
Francillon, and a seaman called Petersen; and when the song ended--it
was a little Italian something-or-other, very bright and gay--and the
clapping began and the calls for an encore, I couldn't stand it any
longer, and I was afraid she'd be starting on 'Home, Sweet Home,' or
something of that sort, and I didn't want Mr. Francillon to see my
face. So I made up an excuse and sent him off to the chart-house for a
pair of dividers (which I didn't want), and away he went.

"When he was gone I stood by the wheel for a bit listening as the
clapping died down. It stopped at last, and I braced myself up and
waited to have my feelings wrung, when just behind me I heard a step on
the ladder. Of course, I took it for Mr. Francillon returning, and I
wheeled about, short-tempered like, to tell him he needn't be
tip-toeing--we weren't on the bridge to listen to grand opera--when
what do I see but Madame! 'You needn't look so cross, Captain,' she
says; 'for I know well enough I'm breaking all rules, and I'll go away
quietly and sing to them again. But we're somewhere near the Islands,
and the call came on me to warn you!' 'Why, truly, ma'am,' I answered,
'I believe we're not far off them.' 'We're close to them,' she answered
me, nodding her head. 'I'm Island-born, Captain, and I feel 'em in my
blood.' I put this down to craziness--hysterics--or whatever you choose
to call it; but just to soothe her mind and get her down quietly off
the bridge I sang out to the leadsman to know if he had found
soundings. I was bending over the rail when I felt a touch on my arm,
and heard her cry out 'Starboard! Hard a-starboard--hard!'--just like
that." Captain Whitaker dropped his voice to a low, fierce whisper as
he imitated her. "It took the helmsman sharp and sudden, so that he had
begun to put the wheel down before he realised that the order didn't
come from me; and the next moment Madame had flung herself upon it and
was helping with both hands. 'Hullo!' says I, stepping after her
smartly, and as good as asking if she or I commanded the _Milo_. The
passengers below had started to sing 'D'ye ken John Peel?' and were
yelling out a lot of silly hunting-cries with the chorus. I could hear
nothing above the racket. But, sure enough, looking to port over my
shoulder as I laid hand on the wheel to check it, I saw a whitis