as 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. H