“Mistress Fairfax—­Dorothy!”

“Yes—­yes,” swiftly.  “It is all right, but you must lie still.  Watkins, Captain Carlyle is conscious.  What shall I do?”

He must have been behind us at the steering oar, for his gruff, kindly voice sounded very close.

“Yer might lift him up, miss,” he said soberly.  “He’ll breathe better.  How’s that, Captain?”

“Much easier,” I managed to breathe.  “I guess I am all right now.  You fished me out?”

“Sam did.  He got a boat hook in your collar.  We cast off when yer went overboard, and cruised about in the fog hunting fer yer.  Who was it yer was fightin’ with, sir?”

“LeVere.”

“That’s what I told the lads.  He’s a goner, I reckon?”

“I never saw him after we sank.  Are all the men here?”

“All but those in the forward boat, sir.  They got away furst, an’ we ain’t had no sight ov ’em since.  Maybe we will when it gets daylight.”

“Who had charge?”

“Harwood, sir; he’s the best man o’ ther lot, an’ a good sailor, I give him a compass, an’ told him ter steer west.  Wus thet right?”

“All I could have told him,” I admitted, lifting myself on one elbow to look about.  “I haven’t had an observation, and it is all guesswork.  I know the American coast lies in that direction, but that is about all.  I couldn’t tell if it be a hundred, or a hundred and fifty miles away.  So the fog has lifted without a storm?”

“Yes, sir, but left an ugly sea.  There has been plenty o’ wind somewhere, but we seem to be out of it.  Must a bin midnight when the mist lifted.”

“Is it as late as that?  I must have been in bad shape when you pulled me in?”

“We thought you was gone, sir.  You was bleedin’ some too, but only from flesh wounds.  The young lady she just wouldn’t let yer die.  She worked over yer for two or three hours, sir, afore I hed any hope.”

Her eyes were downcast and her face turned away, but I reached out my hand and clasped her fingers.  They remained quietly in my grasp, but neither of us spoke.  The boat lay before me a black shadow under the stars, flung up on the crests of the waves and darting down into the hollows.  It required all of Watkins’ skill to keep it upright, the flying spray constantly dashing against our faces.  The men were but dimly revealed, sitting with heads lowered beneath the slight protection afforded by the lug sail, although one was upon his knees, throwing out the water which dashed in over the front rail.  He was succeeding so poorly I called to another to help him, and the two fell to the job with new vigor.  I could not distinguish the faces of the fellows, but counted nine altogether in the boat, and felt assured the huge bulk at the foot of the mast was the Dutchman Schmitt.  Beyond these dim outlines there was nothing for the eye to rest upon, only a few yards of black sea in every direction, rendered visible by