en glanced guiltily aside; and Carthew fled from the eye of
his accomplice, and stood leaning on the taffrail.

An hour went by, while the day came brighter, and the sun rose and drank
up the clouds: an hour of silence in the ship, an hour of agony beyond
narration for the sufferers. Brown's gabbling prayers, the cries of the
sailors in the rigging, strains of the dead Hemstead's minstrelsy, ran
together in Carthew's mind with sickening iteration. He neither
acquitted nor condemned himself: he did not think he suffered. In the
bright water into which he stared, the pictures changed and were
repeated: the baresark rage of Goddedaal; the blood-red light of the
sunset into which they had run forth; the face of the babbling Chinaman
as they cast him over; the face of the captain, seen a moment since, as
he awoke from drunkenness into remorse. And time passed, and the sun
swam higher, and his torment was not abated.

Then were fulfilled many sayings, and the weakest of these condemned
brought relief and healing to the others. Amalu the drudge awoke (like
the rest) to sickness of body and distress of mind; but the habit of
obedience ruled in that simple spirit, and, appalled to be so late, he
went direct into the galley, kindled the fire, and began to get
breakfast. At the rattle of dishes, the snapping of the fire, and the
thin smoke that went up straight into the air, the spell was lifted. The
condemned felt once more the good dry land of habit under foot; they
touched again the familiar guide-ropes of sanity; they were restored to
a sense of the blessed revolution and return of all things earthly. The
captain drew a bucket of water and began to bathe. Tommy sat up, watched
him a while, and slowly followed his example; and Carthew, remembering
his last thoughts of the night before, hastened to the cabin.

Mac was awake; perhaps had not slept. Over his head Goddedaal's canary
twittered shrilly from its cage.

"How are you?" asked Carthew.

"Me arrum's broke," returned Mac; "but I can stand that. It's this place
I can't aboide. I was coming on deck anyway."

"Stay where you are, though," said Carthew. "It's deadly hot above, and
there's no wind. I'll wash out this----" and he paused, seeking a word
and not finding one for the grisly foulness of the cabin.

"Faith, I'll be obloiged to ye, then," replied the Irishman. He spoke
mild and meek, like a sick child with its mother. There was no violence
in the violent man; and