"You will have to cut me loose, sair," he said. "I cannot move them. It is an old trick on these seas. Sometimes it is necessary that a man stand at the wheel many hours without help, and he does this so that if he sleep the wheel wake him, yes, sair." I looked from him to the man on the bed. "But why, sair," said Da Costa slowly, "did Olaf have to tie his hands?" I looked at him, uneasily. "I don't know," I answered. "Do you?" He fidgeted, avoided my eyes, and then rapidly, almost surreptitiously crossed himself. "No," he replied. "I know nothing. Some things I have heard--but they tell many tales on these seas." He started for the door. Before he reached it he turned. "But this I do know," he half whispered, "I am damned glad there is no full moon tonight." And passed out, leaving me staring after him in amazement. What did the Portuguese know? I bent over the sleeper. On his face was no trace of that unholy mingling of opposites the Dweller stamped upon its victims. And yet--what was it the Norseman had said? "The sparkling devil took them!" Nay, he had been even more explicit--"The sparkling devil that came down from the moon!" Could it be that the Dweller had swept upon the Brunhilda, drawing down the moon path Olaf Huldricksson's wife and babe even as it had drawn Throckmartin? As I sat thinking the cabin grew suddenly dark and from above came a shouting and patter of feet. Down upon us swept one of the abrupt, violent squalls that are met with in those latitudes. I lashed Huldricksson fast in the berth and ran up on deck. The long, peaceful swells had changed into angry, choppy waves from the tops of which the spindrift streamed in long stinging lashes. A half-hour passed; the squall died as quickly as it had arisen. The sea quieted. Over in the west, from beneath the tattered, flying edge of the storm, dropped the red globe of the setting sun; dropped slowly until it touched the sea rim. I watched it--and rubbed my eyes and stared again. For over its flaming portal something huge and black moved, like a gigantic beckoning finger! Da Costa had seen it, too, and he turned the Suwarna straight toward the descending orb and its strange shadow. As we approached we saw it was a little mass of wreckage and that the beckoning finger was a wing of canvas, sticking up and swaying with the motion of the waves. On the highest point of the wreckage sat a tall figure calmly smoking a cigarette. We brought the Suwarna to, dropped a boat, and with myself as coxswain pulled toward a wrecked hydroairplane. Its occupant took a long puff at his cigarette, waved a cheerful hand, shouted a greeting. And just as he did so a great wave raised itself up behind him, took the wreckage, tossed it high in a swelter of foam, and passed on. When we had steadied our boat, where wreck and man had been was--nothing.