“Now I know what it means when the papers say, ‘Sensation in the court’!” a little Canadian hospital nurse whispered to Mrs. Locke. But in another second she was clinging to that lady and her eyes were scared and wide; for, as if under the assault of a battering-ram, the _Los Angeles_ was shaking from stem to stern. Hildegarde felt a warm hand laid on her two, tight-clasped and cold. Cheviot had put an arm through the outer fringe of the group where she and Mrs. Locke were standing. “Come for’ard,” he said. “Was that the ice?” Mrs. Locke whispered, allowing herself to be drawn along. All the rest of the people stood hushed for a moment as if stunned by the concussion. The three who alone in those first instants seemed to retain power of movement quietly made their way out of the throng, while every ear was filled with the horrible secondary sounds of that mighty impact—a slow grinding, a horrible gritting, as of granite jaws reducing the bones of prey to powder. “I want you to stay here till I come back.” Cheviot left the two women under the bridge. As Hildegarde listened with beating heart to the sound of the ice against the ship, she said to herself: “These are moments Jack Galbraith has known. After to-night I shall understand better. I shall be closer to a part of his life than Bella ever will.” Every sense was set to note the change that in the last few minutes had come over the spirit of the ship. No wild commotion, a hush rather. But a thing of eery significance. No more shrill harangues in the Kangaroo Court. No dancing on the upper deck. No _tink-a-tink_ of banjo in the steerage. Men gathering in groups, talking for the most part quite quietly, but agreed that “the old sea tramp” wouldn’t stand much of this kind of thing. With a single mind the women, as soon as they had pulled themselves together, hastened down below. “I think I’ll go down, too, and see—” Hildegarde began. “I won’t be two minutes.” “Where are you going?” “To the cabin. Do you want anything brought up?” “No.” The girl was longer than two minutes, but she was no less surprised when, upon her reappearance with a small hand-bag, she found Cheviot talking to Mrs. Locke. “The current is carrying the ice out all right. Probably the only danger is the passengers making fools of themselves. But if they’ll only go quietly to bed—” “They won’t,” said Mrs. Locke. The two discussed this quite in the tone of being allies. “Nobody will go to bed to-night,” she assured him. “What do they want to do?” he demanded. “Sit up till one in the morning,” Mrs. Locke answered, “and see the tide float us off the bar.” “Well, the women at all events”—Cheviot looked about with an air of relief—“the women have gone to bed already.” “No, indeed,” said Hildegarde. “They’re tumbling over one another down in the saloon, in and out of the state-rooms collecting their things. Some are saying their prayers, and some—” “Do you sing?” Cheviot demanded. “I?” Mrs. Locke stared. “No.”