on, the
steward's room. Here, too, was my own surgery, and instinctively I
stopped when I reached it. The door stood ajar. No doubt, I thought,
like every other place, it had suffered the ravages of the mutineers. I
opened it wide, and started back, for there on the floor, a bottle in
her hand, and her features still and tragic, lay Yvonne Trebizond!

I stooped to her, but I knew it was useless even without glancing at
the bottle she held. She had sought death in the despair of her
loneliness. The _Sea Queen_ had carried out upon the face of the dark
waters the previous evening an unhappy woman to a fate which she could
not face. She had chosen Death to that terrible solitude on the
wilderness of the ocean. I lifted her gently, and carried her to one of
the cabins, disposing the body on a bunk. Then I returned to the deck,
for I had work to do that pressed. I experienced no difficulty in
loosing one of the remaining boats, and, dropping into her, I began to
row towards the island.

Legrand had the party at the water's edge, and they were in the boat in
a very brief space of time. We shoved off, and now Legrand and Ellison
had oars in addition to myself, so that, what with that and the tide,
we made good progress. We had not, however, got more than halfway to
the yacht when Legrand paused on his oars and I saw his face directed
along the beach. I followed his glance, and saw, to my astonishment, a
boat bobbing off the spit of the island.

"It's our boat!" said I.

"Yes," he said, "the ruffians are up and about. Give way, give way!"

We bent to the oars, but as we did so a number of figures appeared
round the bend of the land where we had passed our first night. Shouts
reached us. The figure in the boat was working his oars with frantic
haste, and now Legrand called out suddenly,

"Pye!"

Pye it was, and it was also apparent now that he was aiming for us, and
that he was striving to get away from the mutineers. He stood out to
sea, and pulled obliquely towards the yacht. Obviously, he was better
content to trust himself to our mercies than to the ruffians with whom
he had consorted. He was a coward, I knew, and I remembered then his
white face and his terror at the time of the first onslaught. I
remembered, too, how vaguely, how timidly and how ineffectually he had
endeavoured to warn me of the coming massacre. He was a miserable cur;
he had been largely responsible for the bloody voyage; but I could not
help fe