The trial proceeded in a perfunctory manner, and would have been but a routine affair save for the increasing nervousness of Ananias, who concealed the cause by holding both hands to his head as though only the night’s intemperance had unstrung him; and by the sudden appearance of Roger Prat, who, with the captain’s permission, held a whispered conference with Vytal. “I pray you, captain, make no charge against the others. I have charmed them with a flute and tabor. They are hot against the pilot, being but hirelings, and, like sheep, easily led. We can count our force the richer by a score. ‘I have saved your necks,’ said I,’and have talked with Captain Vytal. An we oppose him we surely dangle from the yard-arm. Welladay, welladay, I know what I know,’ and I sang them a song, then played at dice, and lost three angels a-purpose, then drank and warmed their chicken hearts. In another week they will be ready to die for us,” and, making a grimace at the sullen pilot, as who should say,“Be more cheerful, sir,” Roger swaggered from the cabin. On the testimony of Vytal, who told of St. Magil’s conversation with Ferdinando concerning his bribe to the pilot, and on the oath of Ananias Dare, who testified to having heard the defendant plotting with St. Magil, the culprit was speedily condemned. The pale face of Dare, the faltering voice, the nervous effort with which he forced himself to stand erect while bearing witness, were readily set down to his bibulous tendencies, already well known to the fly-boat’s captain. In a grandiose manner Captain Pomp arose and drew himself up to his full height. “Incarcerate the prisoner,” he said to Rouse, “in the hold. At midnight I shall send for him. Our sentence is that he shall be hanged at the yard-arm until dead.” Whereupon, with an important air, not devoid of true dignity, he bowed to Vytal. “It is well,” said the soldier. And the three judges filed slowly from the room. At the hour of midnight, when the voyagers were sleeping in their cabins, a sailor appeared in the hatchway of the hold, and soon the pilot stood beneath the main-mast, guarded by two dusky figures with drawn swords. A third approached him gravely. It was the Oxford preacher, offering consolation. But his offices were undesired. The pilot greeted him with a low curse, then laughed scornfully. Vytal, who had come hither, realized the stubborn nature of the condemned man, and drew the pastor aside. The moon, now full, had risen high, eclipsing with her brilliancy a host of stars. The sea lay glassy, a pool of shining mercury, its currents gliding on in silence, faster than the ship herself. The stillness was profound, broken only by the far-off cry of an unseen gull. The night was a night for serenades of love, for lutes, for ardent whispers, for anything but work like this.