“It means that eleven of our men are there, expecting us to save them. Hoist the ship’s answering pennant from the main yard swung out to starboard. Build a small fire on the poop and throw some oil and lampblack on it. If they don’t recognize the pennant they will understand the smoke. Get some food and water stowed in the life-boat, and offer five pounds a head to six men who will volunteer for a trip ashore.” “I go in charge, of course, sir?” said Boyle. “You remain here, and take command during my absence. I want two revolvers for a couple of the crew, and I shall take my own gun. Please make all arrangements promptly. I am going to my cabin for five minutes, and shall start immediately afterwards.” This was the captain speaking. His tone admitted of no contention. Boyle hurried off, and Courtenay went into his quarters. “What do you think of it?” Christobal asked Tollemache, as the latter appeared to be sauntering after the chief officer. “Rot!” said Tollemache. “But what can we do? He is committing suicide.” “One must do that occasionally. It’s rotten, but it can’t be helped.” Christobal threw out his hands in a despairing gesture. “I tried to stop him, but I failed,” he cried. “Courtenay is a hard man to stop,” said Tollemache, vanishing down the companion. The Spaniard was left alone on the bridge. He paced to and fro, deep in thought. He scarce dared probe his own communings. So complex were they, such a queer amalgam of noble fear and base expectation, that he could have cried aloud in his anguish. Big drops of perspiration stood on his forehead when Courtenay came to him. “For God’s sake, don’t go,” said he hoarsely. “Do you know you are placing me on the rack?” “Your sufferings are of your own contriving, then. Why, man, there is no reason for all this agony. I have written to Elsie, briefly explaining matters. Here is the letter. Give it to her, if I don’t return. And now, pull yourself together. I want you to cheer her. Above all things, don’t let her know I am leaving the ship. I’ll just swing myself overboard at the last moment. I can’t say good-by. I don’t think I could stand that.” CHAPTER XVII. A MAN’S METHOD—AND A WOMAN’S Isobel’s drooping was of brief endurance. Elsie and Mrs. Somerville supported her to the stateroom, and there Elsie sat with her a little while, soothing her as one might comfort a child in pain. Once it seemed that the stricken girl was on the point of confiding in her friend, but the imminent words died away in a passion of tears. Elsie besought her to rest, and strove to calm her with predictions of the joyous days they would pass together when the stress and terror of their present life should be a tale that is told.