At this moment a man came running along the deck--the same quartermaster who had taken charge of Mrs. Ingham-Baker. He was a man of no nerves whatever, and of considerable humour. "Any more ladies?" he was shouting as he ran. "Any more for the shore?" He laughed at his own conceit as he ran--the same fearless laugh with which he sent Mrs. Ingham-Baker down the gangway to her death. He paused, saw Luke and Agatha standing together beneath the lamp. "Captain's callin' you like hell!" he cried. "Engine-room's full. The old ship's got it this time, sir." "All right, I know," answered Luke curtly; and the man ran on, shouting as he went. At this moment the Croonah gave a shiver, and Luke looked round hastily. He ran to the rail and looked over with a quick sailor's glance fore and aft. He turned towards Agatha again, but before he could reach her the steamer gave a lurch over to starboard. The deck seemed to rise between them. For a moment Agatha stood above him, then she half ran, half fell, down the short steep incline into his arms. Luke was ready for her, with one foot against the rail--for the deck was at an angle of thirty and more; no one could stand on it. He caught her deftly, and the breeze whirling round the deck-house blew her long hair across his face. She never changed colour. There was the nucleus of a good and strong woman somewhere in Agatha Ingham-Baker. She clung to her lover's arms and watched his face with a faith that nothing could shake. Thus they stood during three eternal seconds while the Croonah seemed to hesitate, poised on the brink. Then the great steamer slowly slid backwards, turning a little as she did so. There was a sickening sound of gurgling water. The Croonah was afloat, but only for a few seconds. There was no time to lower another boat, and all on board knew it. There were not many remaining, for the passengers had all left the ship--the stokers, the engineers. Amidships the captain stood, surrounded by his officers and a few European sailors--faithful to the end. They had only one boat left, and that was forward, half under water--out of the question. So they stood and waited for the ship to sink beneath them. In the distance, on the rough sea, now grey in the light of a sullen dawn, two boats were approaching, having landed their human freight on Burling Island. "Now, my lads," cried the captain, "if any of you are feeling like going overboard, over you go." One man slowly took off his coat. He stooped down and unlaced his boots, while the others watched him. It seemed to take him hours. The bows of the great steamer were almost buried in the broken seas; her stern was raised high in the air, showing the screw and the rudder. The man who preferred to swim for it looked round with a strange smile into the quiet, rough faces of his undismayed companions. It seemed to be merely a choice of deaths. "Well, mates," he said, "so long!" He dived overboard and swam slowly away.