An exclamation of horror burst from Harvey as the boat, with its panting crew, dashed up alongside that of the chief mate.

“For God’s sake, Tessa, do not look!” he cried hoarsely.

For the half-sunken boat was a shambles, and of her nine occupants only three were alive ­the second steward Jessop, Morrison, and Oliver himself.  The latter lay in the stern sheets with a bullet hole through his chest, and a smashed hip; he had but just time to raise his hand in mute farewell to Harvey and Atkins, and then breathed his last.

Morrison, whose spine was broken by a Winchester bullet, but who was perfectly conscious, was at once lifted out and placed in Atkins’s boat, and Tessa, with the tears streaming down her pale face, and trying hard to restrain her sobs, pillowed his old, grey head upon Atkins’s coat.  Then Jessop, who was evidently still in agony from his broken ribs, one of which, so Morrison said in a faint voice, had, he thought, been driven into his lungs, was placed beside him.

Poor Studdert and the five native seamen were dead, some of them having received as many as five or six bullet wounds.  Studdert himself had been shot through the head, and lay for’ard with his pale face upturned to the sky, and his eyes closed as if in a peaceful sleep.

The boat had been pierced in several places below the water-line by Snider bullets, and by the time Morrison and Jessop had been removed, and Harvey and Atkins had satisfied themselves that the other seven men in her were dead, she was nearly full of water ­not the clear, bright water of the ocean alone, but water deeply stained with the blood of the murdered men.

“We must cast off,” said Atkins in a low voice, “we can do no more.”

As he spoke a bullet from Chard’s Snider struck the water about thirty yards away, and springing up, he seized his own rifle again.

Huka placed his hand on the officer’s arm, and then turned to Harvey and spoke in Samoan, gravely and with solemn emphasis, though his brown cheeks were wetted with tears.

“Let us take no heed of the bullets that come.  Here be six dead men whose souls have gone to God for judgment.  Let us pray for them.”

Atkins, his blazing eyes fixed on the captain’s boat, from which every few seconds a bullet came humming overhead, or striking the water within a few yards, laid down the rifle and took off his cap.

“Go ahead, Huka.  You’re a better Christian than me.  Sling out a prayer for these poor chaps as quick as you can.  We can’t bury them in a decent, shipshape fashion.”

Two men stepped into the sinking, shot-torn boat, and then Huka stood up amidships among his comrades, with bowed head, and his hands crossed upon his great naked chest.  He prayed in Samoan.

“O Jéhovah, who holdeth the great sea in the hollow of Thy hand, we commit to its depths these the bodies of our shipmates who have been slain.  O Father’, most just and most merciful, let them become of Thy kingdom.  Amen.”

Then, one by one, the bodies of Studdert and of the five natives were dropped overboard by the two seamen as reverently as circumstances permitted, and in silence broken only by the suppressed sobbing of the two girls.

Such stores as were in poor Oliver’s boat were next taken out, and then the wrecked and bloodstained craft was cast adrift and left to fill.

As the second mate grasped the haft of the steer-oar again another shot from the captain’s boat fell some distance ahead.

“He’s running away from us as fast as he can,” said Harvey; “look, he’s hauled up a couple of points!”

“Ay, so he has.  And our short Sniders won’t carry any further than the one he’s firing with, so we have no chance of hitting him, I’m afraid.  However, just let us try.  How many Sniders have we?”

“Seven.”

“Avast pulling, lads.  We’ll give him a parting shot together.  Maybe we might drop a bullet into him.  Get out the other five Sniders, Harvey; the Winchesters are no use at such a range.”

The boat was swung broadside on, and the two white men and five natives fired a volley together.  Tessa stood up on the after-thwart, and watched through Atkin’s glasses; the heavy bullets all fell short.

“Never mind, lads,” said Atkins.  “God Almighty ain’t going to let those two men escape.  Now, Harvey, what about ourselves?  What is it to be?  Ponape, or the nearest land?”

“The nearest land, tor Gawd’s sake,” sobbed Jessop.  “I ain’t got long to live, and for Christ’s sake don’t chuck me overboard to be chawed up by the sharks like a piece o’ dead meat.”

“Man,” said a faint voice beside him, “ye’re ower particular, I’m thinking.  And it would be a verrà hungry shark that wad hae the indecency to eat such a puir chicken-hearted creature as yourself, ye miserable cur!  Are ye no ashamed to be whining before the two lasses?”

It was the dying Morrison who spoke.  Tessa bent over him.  “Do not be angry with him,” she whispered, “he is in great agony.”

“Ay, I hae no doubt he’s in verrà great pain; but ye see, my dear, I’m auld and crotchety, and the creature’s verrà annoying wi’ his whining and moaning and fearsome blasphemy.”

Tessa, who knew as well as the brave old man knew himself that he was dying, placed her soft hand on his rugged brow in silent sympathy; he looked up at her with a cheerful smile.

Harvey and Atkins consulted.  Ponape was between four and five hundred miles distant, a long voyage for a deeply-laden boat without a sail.  Two hundred miles to the westward was Pikirami Atoll (the “Greenwich Island” of the charts), and a hundred and eighty miles north of that was Nukuor, the most southerly of the vast archipelago of the Caroline Islands.

“I don’t know what is best for us to do, Atkins,” said the trader.  “At this time of the year we can count upon every night being such as it was last night, perhaps a great deal worse; and we must either turn tail to the squalls or put out a sea anchor and drift.  This means that we’ll make no headway at all at night time, and be set steadily to the westward, and out of our course for Ponape.  If we had a sail it would be right enough, as we could lay up for there ­within a couple of points anyway.  But we have no sail, and willing as the men are to pull, it will be terribly exhausting.”

Atkins nodded.  “Just so, Mr. Carr.  If, as you say, we had a sail it would be different.  Without one it may take us a fortnight or more to get to Ponape.”

“Quite.  Now on the other hand, Pikirami Lagoon lies less than a hundred and fifty miles dead to leeward of us.  It is low, but I don’t think we shall miss it if we steer W. by S., as on the south end there is a coral mound about a hundred feet high.  If we do miss it we can steer south for New Ireland; we can’t miss that if we tried to, and would get there sooner than we could reach Ponape.  Then there is another advantage in our making for Pikirami ­we can run before the night squalls, and the harder they blow the better it will be for us ­we’ll get there all the sooner.”

Then Harvey went on to say that at Piki-rami ­which he knew well ­they would meet with a friendly reception from the few natives who inhabited two islets out of the thirty which formed the atoll.  Twice every year the place was visited by a small German trading schooner from Blanche Bay, in New Britain, and possibly, he thought, they might either find her there loading a cargo of copra; or, if not, they could wait for her.  In the latter case he would on Tessa’s behalf charter the vessel to take them all to Ponape, for her father’s name and credit were well known from one end of the Pacific to the other, and there would be no difficulty in making terms with the master.

Atkins agreed willingly to Harvey’s suggestions, for he well knew the great risks that would attend the attempt to reach Ponape under such circumstances as were theirs; and the native crew, much as they wished to pursue the captain and wreak their vengeance upon him and the supercargo, readily acquiesced in Harvey’s plan of steering for Pikirami Lagoon in when he pointed out to them the difficulties and dangers that lay before them by making for Ponape, or, indeed, any other island of the Caroline Group.

“And those men there,” said Harvey, speaking in Samoan, and pointing to the captain’s boat, which was now more than a mile distant, “cannot escape punishment for their crimes; for is not this the word of God:  ‘Thou shalt do no murder’?  And those two men have done murder, and God will call them to account.”

Roka, the big Manhikian native, whose brother had been killed, answered for himself and his comrades in the same tongue.

“Ay, that is true.  But yet it is hard that I, whose brother’s blood is before my eyes and the smell of it in my nostrils, cannot see these men die.  How can we tell, master, that men will judge them for their crimes?  They are sailing away, and may reach some country far distant, and so be safe.”

Harvey partly assented.  “They may escape for a time, Roka, but not for long.  Rest assured of that.”

Then a tot of rum was served out to each man, and the boat’s head put W. by S. for Pikirami Lagoon, while Tessa and Maoni set to work under Atkins’s directions to sew together some odd pieces of calico and navy blue print, which Latour the steward had fortunately thrust into the sack containing the firearms.  When it was completed it made a fairly sized squaresail, which could always be used during light winds.

The captain’s boat had disappeared from view, when Jessop the second steward beckoned to Harvey to come to him.

“Ask the young lady to go for’ard, mister, will you?” he said, turning his haggard eyes upon the trader’s face.  “I feel as ‘ow I’m goin’, an’ I said I would make a clean breast of it.  But I don’t want ’er to ’ear; do ye twig, mister, though I’ll tell you and Mr. Hatkins?”

Harvey nodded, and whispered to Tessa to go for’ard.  “The poor little beggar is dying, Tessa, and has something to tell me.”

Tessa and Maoni went for’ard and sat down under the shade of the newly-made mainsail, which was hoisted upon an oar with a bamboo yard.  There they were quite out of hearing of the vile confession of Jessop’s complicity with Chard and the captain made by the wretched man, who was now sinking fast, and knew that his hours were numbered, for, as Morrison had surmised, one of his lungs was fatally injured.  And when he had finished the low-spoken tale of his villainy even the rough-natured Atkins was filled with pity when he saw how the poor wretch was suffering, both physically and mentally.

“You’ve done right, Jessop, in telling us this; it’ll be all the better for you when you have to stand before the Almighty, won’t it, Mr. Carr?”

“Yes, indeed, Jessop,” said Harvey kindly; “and I wish we could do something to alleviate your pain, poor fellow!”

“Never mind, sir.  You’re a gent if ever there was one, and you ’as taken away a lot o’ the pain I’ve ’ad in me ‘eart by forgivin’ me.  And perhaps the young lady will just let me tell ’er I’m sorry, and give me ’er ’and before I go.”

Atkins beckoned to Tessa, who came quickly aft and knelt beside the dying man, who looked into her soft, sympathetic face longingly yet fearfully.

“I’m a bad lot, miss, as Mr. Carr will tell you when I’m dead.  It was me that give you and Monny the drugged coffee, and I want you to forgive me, an’ give me your ’and.”

Tessa looked wonderingly at Harvey, who bent towards her and whispered a few words.  In an instant she took Jessop’s hand between both of hers.

“Poor Jessop,” she said softly, “I forgive you freely, and I do hope you will get better soon.”

He looked at her with dimmed, wistful eyes.  “Thank you, miss.  You’re very kind to a cove like me.  Will you ’old me ’and a bit longer, please.”

Early in the afternoon, as the boat slipped lazily over the gentle ocean swell, he died.  And though Atkins and Harvey would have liked to have acceded to his last wishes to be buried on shore, stern necessity forbade them so doing, for they knew not how long it would be ere they reached Pikirami; and so at sunset his body was consigned to the deep.

For the rest of that day, and during the night, when the white rain squalls came with a droning, angry hum from the eastward and drenched the people with a furious downpour, flattening the heaving swell with its weight, the boat kept steadily on her course; and, but for the shadow of death which hourly grew darker over poor Morrison, the voyagers would have talked and laughed and made light of their sodden and miserable surroundings.  Morrison himself was the most cheerful man in the boat, and when Atkins and Harvey rigged an oilskin coat over him to keep the rain from his face at least he protested as vigorously as he could, saying that he did not mind the rain a bit, and urging them to use it to protect “the two lassies” from the blinding and deafening downpour.

Dawn at last.

The misty sea haze lifted and scattered before the first breath of the gentle breeze, a blood-red sun leapt from the shimmering water-line to windward; a frigate bird and his mate swept swiftly through the air from the westward to view the dark spot upon the ocean two thousand feet below, and day had come again.

Tessa had the engineer’s old, grey head pillowed on her lap.  Harvey held his right hand, and Atkins, who knew that the end was near, had taken off his soddened cap, and bent his face low over the haft of the steer-oar.

“Do you feel any pain, Mr. Morrison?” asked Tessa, as she stroked the old man’s face, and tried to hide her tears.

“Well, I wouldna be for saying no, and I wouldna be for saying yes, my dearie,” replied the brave old fellow; “I’m no complaining aboot mysel’, but I’d like to see ye ‘saft and warm,’ as we Scots say, instead of sitting here wi’ my auld, greasy head in your lap, and your ain puir body shivering wi’ cauld.  Gie me your hand, Harvey Carr... and yours too, Miss Remington....  May God guide ye both together; and you too, Atkins, for ye are a guid sailor man, and a honest one, too.  And if ye can get to this lagoon in time ­ye know what I mean ­ye’ll pit my auld bones under God’s earth and no cast me overboard?”

Atkins was beside him in a moment.  “Brace up, Morrison, old man, you’re a long way off dead yet,” he said, with rough sympathy.

“Nay, Atkins, I’m verrà near... verrà near.  But I hae no fear.  I’m no afraid of what is to come; because I hae a clean sheet o’ my life to show to the Almighty ­I’m no like that puir devil Jessop.  Harvey man, listen to me.  Long, long ago, when I was a bairn at my mother’s knee, I read a vairse of poetry which has never come to my mind till now, when I’m verrà near my Maker, I canna repeat the exact words, but I think it goes like this,” he whispered,

“’He who, from zone to zone,
Guides o’er the trackless main the sea-bird’s flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone
Will guide my steps aright.’”

“May God guide us all as He guides the sea-bird, and as He has guided you,” said Tessa sobbingly, as she pressed her lips to his cheek.

Morrison took her hand and held it tightly,

“God help and bless ye, lassie.  May ye and Harvey never see the shadow of a sorrow in your lives.  Atkins, ye’ll tak’ guid care to remember that there is a hundred and sixty-three pounds due to me frae Hillingdon and MacFreeland, and that if ye do not care to take it yoursel’, it must go to auld John Cameron, the sailors’ parson in Sydney.  Ye hae ony amount of witnesses to hear what I’m now telling ye.  I’m no for being long wi’ ye, and I dinna want yoursel’ nor auld Jock Cameron to be robbed.”

“I’ll see that the old parson gets it, Morrison,” said Atkins huskily; “he’ll do more good with it than a man like me.”

“Man,” said the old engineer, as he lifted his kindly grey eyes to the second mate, “ye’re welcome to it.  I wish it were a thousand, for ye’re a grand sailor man, wi’ a big heart, and maybe ye hae some good woman waiting for ye; and a hunner and sixty pound is no sma’ help to ­”

His voice failed, but his lips were smiling still as he gave his last sigh; and then his head lay still in Tessa’s arms.