ered the words, a terrible jar ran fiercely through the
ship from stem to stern--a jar that made one clench one's teeth and hold
one's jaws tight--the jar of a prow that shattered against a rock. I
took it all in at a glance. We had forgotten Ushant, but Ushant had not
forgotten us. It had revenged itself upon us by revealing its existence.

In a moment all was turmoil and confusion on deck. I cannot describe the
scene that followed. Sailors rushed to and fro, unfastening ropes and
lowering boats, with admirable discipline. Women shrieked and cried
aloud in helpless terror. The voice of the first officer could be heard
above the din, endeavouring to atone by courage and coolness in the
actual disaster for his recklessness in causing it. Passengers rushed on
deck half clad, and waited for their turn to take places in the boats.
It was a time of terror, turmoil, and hubbub. But, in the midst of
it all, Hilda turned to me with infinite calm in her voice. "Where is
Sebastian?" she asked, in a perfectly collected tone. "Whatever happens,
we must not lose sight of him."

"I am here," another voice, equally calm, responded beside her. "You
are a brave woman. Whether I sink or swim, I admire your courage, your
steadfastness of purpose." It was the only time he had addressed a word
to her during the entire voyage.

They put the women and children into the first boats lowered. Mothers
and little ones went first; single women and widows after. "Now, Miss
Wade," the first officer said, taking her gently by the shoulders when
her turn arrived. "Make haste; don't keep us waiting!"

But Hilda held back. "No, no," she said, firmly. "I won't go yet. I am
waiting for the men's boat. I must not leave Professor Sebastian."

The first officer shrugged his shoulders. There was no time for protest.
"Next, then," he said, quickly. "Miss Martin--Miss Weatherly!"

Sebastian took her hand and tried to force her in. "You MUST go," he
said, in a low, persuasive tone. "You must not wait for me!"

He hated to see her, I knew. But I imagined in his voice--for I noted it
even then--there rang some undertone of genuine desire to save her.

Hilda loosened his grasp resolutely. "No, no," she answered, "I cannot
fly. I shall never leave you."

"Not even if I promise--"

She shook her head and closed her lips hard. "Certainly not," she said
again, after a pause. "I cannot trust you. Besides, I must stop by your
side and do my best to save you. You