Mavis covered her face with her hands, and the tears trickled down her face. “My dear, don’t take it to heart,” went on Alan kindly. “If anything happens to Murdoch, he will have given his life for his friends.” Then a muffled cry came from within the little chamber. Quickly Alan touched the lever, the folds of metal rolled back, and two figures fell forward on their faces. “Water,” commanded Alan, and Mavis rushed to get some. “Have you any brandy left?” asked Sir John. “A very little.” “Bring some too,” he cried as Mavis disappeared into the kitchen. Tenderly they wiped blood and sweat from the faces of the unconscious men. Masters opened his eyes. “Out there,” said he hoarsely. “Terrible smell—sulphuric—can’t breathe properly—whirling clouds—eyes smart—don’t go again.” “He’ll do,” said Sir John. “How’s Murdoch?” “He’s so terribly cold,” said Mavis. Alan took his place by the still form. “Brandy,” said he. He looked at the man on the floor. Thick veins like whipcords stood out upon his forehead. Blood trickled from his nose, his ears, his mouth. His lips were swollen, and were blue in colour and cracked. “He’s gone,” said Alan. “Dead?” cried Mavis in horror. “Quite dead.” Gently they carried the dead man, who had risked his life for his friends, to his little sleeping cabin. Tenderly they laid him on his bed, covered up his face, and closed the door softly behind them. Then they went back to Mavis who was watching over Masters. “How is he?” asked Desmond. “Better, I think. He asked for water. I think he is sleeping now.” Alan bent over their old and valued friend. The look of pallor had vanished, the veins subsided, he was breathing naturally. “Poor Murdoch,” sobbed Mavis. “I feel it was my fault. I was always worrying you to open the shutters and let us go outside.” “Don’t worry, little one,” said Sir John. “He died like an English gentleman.” “Oh how terrible everything is,” she sobbed hysterically. “There seems no end to our torment. Oh this horrible place, this horrible ship of doom!” CHAPTER III THE VISION OF A NEW WORLD Perfect silence, perfect stillness, and the clouds whirled round and round outside. In vain they tried to move the ship. The engines worked smoothly, and with perfect rhythm, but were powerless to propel the Argenta. The death of Murdoch had a terribly depressing effect on every one—they all missed his kindly brusqueness, his forethought and stolid help.