From time to time she spoke to the toiling men with bright words of encouragement, which always brought a renewed strength to their aching muscles and produced a look of fierce determination in their tired eyes. Then for a spell she would fall silent, and lose herself in her thoughts as she looked at the blind stroke, until her soul crept out of her sad eyes in a soft glow of infinite tenderness. The tired, hard-lined features of the men softened as they watched her, then hardened again at the sight of the on-coming boats. The bosun's mate hissed a sea-blessing through his sternly compressed lips as he glared at the persevering dago; then, bringing his eyes back to the toiling shoulders of the blind man before him, he bent to his work with a queer expression of pity twisting up his face. As for Jack, since their short meal he had rowed in inscrutable silence, his eyes closed, and only the fierce, unnatural strength which he put into the sweep of his oar-blade gave any indication of how deeply this blindness was cutting into his very soul. And, indeed, it was a bitter position to be in for one of such a self-reliant and masterful nature as Jack. The weak man whimpers when taxed by fate beyond his strength, but there was little weakness in Jack. Whimpering was not the method his wilful spirit thought of taking to ease its agony; no, he preferred action, and as a sharp report broke in upon his ears and the soft "Theeu!" of a bullet hummed over his head, he braced up with a queer laugh which had little mirth in it. No better tonic could have been dealt out to the man; the light of battle leaped into his sightless eyes, and washed away the misery--all gone, forgotten. "Now for it," he muttered to himself grimly. A man was standing up in the sternsheets of the leading boat, a smoking rifle in his hand. "It's Dago Charlie," cried Loyola, looking over her shoulder, and she gave an irrepressible shudder. "Loyola, you used to be a nailing shot with a rifle," declared Jack. "See if you can't stop that devil's game." "Oh, Jack, I can't shoot at live men," declared the girl, in great distress. "Why not, if they're shooting at you? and it's our only hope. Will you let that scoundrel win after all this long struggle without an effort to stop him? No, Lolie, I know you won't; you're too clean-strain to turn soft like that." His words had the desired effect. In silence the woman let go of the steering-oar, and picked up one of the rifles at her feet; then, putting it to her shoulder in a workmanlike manner, glanced along the sights and fired. A hoarse, shrill cheer from Jim announced a hit. The bow of the leading boat had toppled forward over his oar, and for a moment or so it ceased pulling, whilst the man was replaced. Loyola paled to the lips as she watched the result of her shooting, but a bullet from the dago, which drilled a neat double hole through the brim of her sombrero, stirred her up afresh.