fortune for some of us. The unexpected event was, namely, that we
lost Cornelys Jensen; and this was the way in which the thing came
about.

The nights during that spell of foul weather were very dark and
moonless, not because there was no moon, though she was now waning into
her last quarter, but because of the quantity of clouds that muffled up
the face of the heavens and hid the moon and the stars from us. But we
made shift as well as we could, working hard all the time that the
daylight lasted, and giving up the night to the rest we were all in such
sore need of. Of course, the usual discipline of the ship was preserved,
the usual watches set, and all observed exactly as if Captain Amber
himself had been aboard, for, though the Royal Christopher was sadly
shaken, she was still uninjured as to her inward parts, and we were all
able to sleep under cover and out of the way of wind or weather.

On the night before the weather mended, although it was not my watch and
I was below in my cabin, I found that I could not sleep. The air was
close and oppressive, full of a heat that heralded, though I did not
know it, the coming of a spell of fine weather. I was feverish and
distressed of body, and tossed for long enough in my hammock, trying
very hard to get to sleep; but, though I was tired as a dog, the grace
of sleep would not come to me. At last, in very desperation, I resolved
to continue the struggle no longer. If I could not sleep I could not,
and there was an end of it. I would go on deck and get there a little
air to cool my hot body.

So up on deck I went and looked about me. All was quiet, all was dark.
Here and there a ship's lanthorn made a star in the gloom; the ship
seemed like a black rock rising out of blackness. I could hear the tread
of the watch; I could hear the noisy lapping of the water. There was no
wind, there was no moon; the air seemed to be thick and choking. I felt
scarcely more refreshed than I had been in my cabin, but as I had come
up I thought that I might as well stay up for a bit and have the benefit
of whatever air there was. So I made my way cautiously in the darkness
to the side of the vessel, and, leaning upon the bulwark, looked out
over the sea, and fell to thinking of Marjorie and of my love for her
and all its hopelessness.

Presently I heard voices. Those who spoke drew nearer and nearer to me,
and I soon recognised the speakers as Lancelot and Cornelys Jensen. At
the spot where