He moved a step nearer the steel rail. He leant against it. Then, for some terrible moments, from the manner in which he nursed his injured member, agony seemed to supervene and shut out every other emotion. The moments passed. The young naval officer shifted his position. The strain was telling upon him. The man at the rail moved again. His gaze was withdrawn from the horizon. It was turned towards the sailor. The officer averted his gaze. He could not face the eyes which were yet beyond his discernment. He knew their expression without seeing it. He understood the man's object. This was the moment he had awaited. The Teutonic mind was silently hurling all the power of hate and defiant contempt of which the distorted spirit was capable at those who had forced him to his final desperate act. There was the faintest sound of a splash. The young officer's eyes came back, searching for his charge. But where Frederick von Berger had stood there only remained the unbroken line of the rail. Then a voice spoke sharply behind him. It was the voice of Ruxton Farlow conveying orders to Captain Ludovic in the turret. "Dorby without delay," he said. "The pilot will pick us up at the Northbank buoy." CHAPTER XXX GAZING UPON A NEW WORLD The room was very quiet. A wintry sunbeam glanced in through the leaded casement and fell slanting across the floor, lighting up the occupied four-post bed. A uniformed nurse was occupied at a bureau which stood in the window-place, framed in the floral chintz hangings which seemed to suit so well the oaken panelling of the room, and the beams with which the ceiling was so powerfully groined. The doctor, a benevolent, grey-whiskered, cherub-eyed old man, who had cared for every patient at Dorby Towers since the Farlows came into occupation, was at the bedside talking gently but firmly to his patient. "It is useless, my dear young lady," he said, with, for him, an almost peevish complaint. "I have done all that a man can do. I have pulled you clear of that wretched brain-fever which threatened you. Your poor, poor arm will soon be out of its plaster, and covered with nothing more disfiguring than a sling, which can at all times be made to match your costume, and yet you will do nothing to help _me_. It is really distressing. You should have been on that couch two weeks ago. A week ago you should have been moving about getting your bodily strength back. I really can't understand such obstinacy. Eight weeks in this bed, and you will not, simply will not, pull yourself up sufficiently to allow your being moved. You know it's a case of that woman, Mrs. Somebody, in one of Charles Dickens's books. I don't remember the name. All I know is she died, or did something equally silly, because she wouldn't make an effort."