“Come on deck,” he said.

Every man leaped as to an order.  There was that in Forsythe’s voice which stung.  The weather had cleared somewhat, though scudding wrack still blew across them to the westward.  The ship rolled heavily.  Of the sea naught was visible except the arching waves, but in the sky they beheld again, with a sickening sense of disaster, that pale and lovely glow which had so bewildered them two nights before.

“The aurora!” cried McGuire, the paymaster.

“Oh, certainly,” replied Ives, with sarcasm.  “Dead in the west.  Common spot for the aurora.  Particularly on the edge of the South Seas, where they are thick!”

“Then what is it?”

Nobody had an answer.  Carter hastened forward and returned to report.

“It’s electrical anyway,” said Carter.  “The compass is queer again.”

“Edwards ought to be close to the solution of it,” ventured Ives.  “This gale should have blown him just about to the centre of interest.”

“If only he isn’t involved in it,” said Carter anxiously.

“What could there be to involve him?” asked McGuire.

“I don’t know,” said Carter slowly.  “Somehow I feel as if the desertion of the schooner was in some formidable manner connected with that light.”

For perhaps fifteen minutes the glow continued.  It seemed to be nearer at hand than on the former sighting; but it took no comprehensible form.  Then it died away and all was blackness again.  But the officers of the Wolverine had long been in troubled slumber before the sensitive compass regained its exact balance, and with the shifting wind to mislead her, the cruiser had wandered, by morning, no man might know how far from her course.

All day long of June 6th the Wolverine, baffled by patches of mist and moving rain-squalls, patrolled the empty seas without sighting the lost schooner.  The evening brought an envelope of fog again, and presently a light breeze came up from the north.  An hour of it had failed to disperse the mist, when there was borne down to the warship a flapping sound as of great wings.  The flapping grew louder—­waned—­ceased—­and from the lookout came a hail.

“Ship’s lights three points on the starboard quarter.”

“What do you make it out to be?” came the query from below.

“Green light’s all I can see, sir.”  There was a pause.

“There’s her port light, now.  Looks to be turning and bearing down on us, sir.  Coming dead for us”—­the man’s voice rose—­“close aboard; less’n two ship’s lengths away!”

As for a prearranged scene, the fog-curtain parted.  There loomed silently and swiftly the Laughing Lass.  Down she bore upon the greater vessel until it seemed as if she must ram; but all the time she was veering to windward, and now she ran into the wind with a castanet rattle of sails.  So close aboard was she that the eager eyes of Uncle Sam’s men peered down upon her empty decks—­for she was void of life.