The strange part of it was that Luke remained alone on the bridge. The captain and the other officers were busy with the passengers. The second officer remained motionless at his post; he commanded the steersman by a wave of the arm to stay at the wheel, although he knew that the Croonah would never answer her helm again; her travelling days were done. In the dim light now increasing momentarily, Luke FitzHenry looked down upon the wildly confused decks and saw discipline slowly assert itself. He saw the captain commanding by sheer force of individual power; he saw the quartermasters form in line across the deck and drive the passengers farther aft, leaving room to get out the boats. In a few moments--in a marvellously short space of time--the work of saving life began. A boat was lowered, the crew slipped into their places, and a certain number of lady passengers were hastily handed down the gangway. The first boat eased away. The oars were thrown out. It was off, and some of the passengers cheered. One can never tell what men, especially Englishmen, may do when they actually see death face to face. The boat was headed to the south-east, towards the Carreiro do Mosteiro, on Burling Island, the only possible landing-place. Luke felt a touch on his arm and turned sharply. It was a quartermaster, breathless but cool. "Captain wants you, sir. I'll take the bridge." Luke turned to obey orders. "Keep her steaming full speed ahead," he said, jerking his head towards the engine-room telegraph. "Ay, sir," the man replied. "Until the water gets to the furnaces," he added to himself, "and then we're dead men." Luke ran lightly down the iron ladder to the lower bridge, which was deserted. From thence he made his way aft to the quarter-deck. As he passed the saloon staircase he ran against two women; one was dragging the other, or attempting to do so, towards the group of passengers huddled together amidships. "You go," the younger woman was saying, "if you want to. I will wait." Luke stopped. The elder woman was apparently wild with terror. She had not even stopped to put on a dressing-gown. Her thin grey hair fluttered in the breeze. She was stout and an object of ridicule even with death clutching at her. "Go on, mother," said the younger woman, with contempt in her voice. "Agatha!" cried Luke. "You here?" "Yes; we came on board at Malta." CHAPTER XII. THE END OF THE "CROONAH". Our life is given us as a blank; Ourselves must make it blest or curst. A man came running along and clutched at Luke's arm. "Captain wants you, sir, immediate!" he cried. "All right," answered Luke. "Here, take this lady and put her into a boat." Mrs. Ingham-Baker was clinging to him. "Luke," she said firmly, "you must provide us with a lifeboat--a safe one. I will not stand this neglect." "Here!" cried Luke to the man. "Take her away."