“Now, Captain,” he said, “swing the yards and drive for dear life. You see, I am no navigator,” he explained a few minutes later, as he stood by the captain aft, the latter with gaze wandering from aloft to overside as he estimated the Pyrenees' speed. “You must fetch her to Mangareva. When you have picked up the land, then I will pilot her in. What do you think she is making?” “Eleven,” Captain Davenport answered, with a final glance at the water rushing past. “Eleven. Let me see, if she keeps up that gait, we'll sight Mangareva between eight and nine o'clock tomorrow morning. I'll have her on the beach by ten or by eleven at latest. And then your troubles will be all over.” It almost seemed to the captain that the blissful moment had already arrived, such was the persuasive convincingness of McCoy. Captain Davenport had been under the fearful strain of navigating his burning ship for over two weeks, and he was beginning to feel that he had had enough. A heavier flaw of wind struck the back of his neck and whistled by his ears. He measured the weight of it, and looked quickly overside. “The wind is making all the time,” he announced. “The old girl's doing nearer twelve than eleven right now. If this keeps up, we'll be shortening down tonight.” All day the Pyrenees, carrying her load of living fire, tore across the foaming sea. By nightfall, royals and topgallantsails were in, and she flew on into the darkness, with great, crested seas roaring after her. The auspicious wind had had its effect, and fore and aft a visible brightening was apparent. In the second dog-watch some careless soul started a song, and by eight bells the whole crew was singing. Captain Davenport had his blankets brought up and spread on top the house. “I've forgotten what sleep is,” he explained to McCoy. “I'm all in. But give me a call at any time you think necessary.” At three in the morning he was aroused by a gentle tugging at his arm. He sat up quickly, bracing himself against the skylight, stupid yet from his heavy sleep. The wind was thrumming its war song in the rigging, and a wild sea was buffeting the PYRENEES. Amidships she was wallowing first one rail under and then the other, flooding the waist more often than not. McCoy was shouting something he could not hear. He reached out, clutched the other by the shoulder, and drew him close so that his own ear was close to the other's lips. “It's three o'clock,” came McCoy's voice, still retaining its dovelike quality, but curiously muffled, as if from a long way off. “We've run two hundred and fifty. Crescent Island is only thirty miles away, somewhere there dead ahead. There's no lights on it. If we keep running, we'll pile up, and lose ourselves as well as the ship.” “What d' ye think--heave to?” “Yes; heave to till daylight. It will only put us back four hours.”