"Well," said Gualtier, rousing himself with a start from a momentary abstraction into which he had fallen--"the first thing I did was to go down into the hold with some augers, and bore holes through the vessel's bottom." Another silence followed. "_Some_ augers," said Hilda, after a time. "Did you need more than one?" "One might break." "Did any one go with you?" she persisted. "Yes--one of the men--the greatest ruffian of the lot. 'Black Bill,' he was called. I've got something to tell you about him. I took him down to help me, for I was afraid that I might not make a sure thing of it. Between us we did the job. The water began to rush in through half a dozen holes, which we succeeded in making, and we got out on deck as the yacht was rapidly filling." Again Gualtier paused for some time. "Why do you hesitate so?" asked Hilda, quite calmly. Gualtier looked at her for a moment, with something like surprise in his face; but without making any reply, he went on: "I hurried into the cabin and listened. There was no sound. I put my ear close to the inner door. All was utterly and perfectly still. She was evidently sleeping. I then hurried out and ordered the men into the boat. Before embarking myself I went back to the hold, and reached my hands down. I felt the water. It was within less than three feet of the deck. It had filled very rapidly. I then went on board the boat, unfastened the line, and we pulled away, steering east, as nearly as possible toward Leghorn. We had rowed for about half an hour, when I recollected that I ought to have locked the cabin door. But it was too late to return. We could never have found the schooner if we had tried. The night was intensely dark. Besides, by that time the schooner--_was at the bottom of the sea_." A long silence followed. Hilda looked steadily out on the water, and Gualtier watched her with hungry eyes. At last, as though she felt his eyes upon her, she turned and looked at him. A great change had come over her face. It was fixed and rigid and haggard--her eyes had something in them that was awful. Her lips were white--her face was ashen. She tried to speak, but at first no sound escaped. At last she spoke in a hoarse voice utterly unlike her own. "_She_ is gone, then." "_For evermore_!" said Gualtier. Hilda turned her stony face once more toward the sea, while Gualtier looked all around, and then turned his gaze back to this woman for whom he had done so much.