“And they have been released only a little sooner than we shall be,” she continued. “Do you notice how low the ship rides now and how sluggish she is? The hold must be half filled with water—another such sea as the last one will founder her.” For some time they stood in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts. The bulk rolled in the trough and momentarily it seemed that she might not roll back in time to avert the disaster of the next menacing comber, yet each time she staggered drunkenly to oppose a high side to the hungry waters. “I believe the storm has spent itself,” said Tanar. “The wind has died and there has been no sea like the great one that stove in the forward hatch,” said Stellara, hopefully. The noonday sun broke from behind the black cloud that had shrouded it and the sea burst into a blaze of blue and silver beauty. The storm had passed. The seas diminished. The derelict rolled heavily upon the great swells, low in the water, but temporarily relieved of the menace of immediate disaster. Tanar descended the companionway to the lower deck and approached the forward hatch. A single glance below revealed only what he could have anticipated—floating corpses rolling with the roll of the derelict. All below were dead. With a sigh he turned away and returned to the upper deck. The girl did not even question him for she could read in his demeanor the story of what his eyes had beheld. “You and I are the only living creatures that remain aboard,” he said. She waved a hand in a broad gesture that took in the sea about them. “Doubtless we alone of the entire ship’s company have survived,” she said. “I see no other ship nor any of the small boats.” Tanar strained his eyes in all directions. “Nor I,” said he; “but perhaps some of them have escaped.” She shook her head. “I doubt it.” “Yours has been a heavy loss,” sympathized the Sarian. “Besides so many of your people, you have lost your father and your mother.” Stellara looked up quickly into his eyes. “They were not my people,” she said. “What?” exclaimed Tanar. “They were not your people? But your father, The Cid, was Chief of the Korsars.” “He was not my father,” replied the girl. “And the woman was not your mother?” “May the gods forbid!” she exclaimed. “But The Cid! He treated you like a daughter.” “He thought I was his daughter, but I am not.” “I do not understand,” said Tanar; “yet I am glad that you are not. I could not understand how you, who are so different from them, could be a Korsar.” “My mother was a native of the island of Amiocap and there The Cid, raiding for women, seized her. She told me about it many times before she died. “Her mate was absent upon a great tandor hunt and she never saw him again. When I was born The Cid thought that I was his daughter, but my mother knew better for I bore upon my left shoulder a small, red birthmark identical with one upon the left shoulder of the mate from whom she had been stolen—my father.