“There’s a smart bit of wind in those clouds, sir,” he said respectfully, “an’ I don’t like the look o’ the coast ter leeward.  Shall we trim sail?”

“Not quite yet, Watkins.  It will be some time before the gale strikes here.  The bark is going down, presently.”

“Yes, sir; but the men better stand by.”  He glanced from my face to that of the girl, lowering his voice.  “Harwood tells me Sanchez was aboard, sir, and refused to leave?”

“Very true; but he was dying; no doubt is dead by now.  There was nothing to be done for him.”

“I should say not, Mr. Carlyle.  I wouldn’t lift a finger ter save him frum hell.”

There was a sudden cry forward, and a voice shouted.

“There she goes, buckies!  That damn Dutchman’s done with.  That’s the last o’ the Namur!”

I turned swiftly, my hand grasping her fingers as they clung to the rail.  With a rasping sound, clearly distinguished across the intervening water, as though every timber cried out in agony to the strain, the battered hulk slid downward, the deck breaking amidships as the stern splashed into the depths; then that also toppled over, leaving nothing above water except the blunt end of a broken bow-sprit, and a tangle of wreckage, tossed about on the crest of the waves.  I watched breathlessly, unable to utter a sound; I could only think of that stricken man in the cabin, those wild eyes which had threatened me.  He was gone now—­gone!  Watkins spoke.

“It’s all over, sir.”

“Yes, there is nothing to keep us here any longer,” I answered still dazed, but realizing I must arouse myself.  “Shake out the reef in your mainsail, and we’ll get out to sea.  Who is at the wheel?”

“Schmitt, sir—­what is the course, Captain Carlyle?”

“Nor’west, by nor’, and hold on as long as you can.”

“Ay, ay, sir; nor’west by nor’ she is.”

I yet held Dorothy’s hand tightly clasped in my own, and the depths of her uplifted eyes questioned me.

“We will go aft, dear, and I will tell you the whole story,” I said gently, “for now we are homeward bound.”

* * * * *

I write these few closing lines a year later, in the cabin of the Ocean Spray, a three master, full to the hatches with a cargo of tobacco, bound for London, and a market.  Dorothy is on deck, eagerly watching for the first glimpse of the chalk cliffs of old England.  I must join her presently, yet linger below to add these final sentences.

There is, after all, little which needs to be said.  The voyage of the Santa Marie north proved uneventful, and, after that first night of storm, the weather held pleasant, and the sea fairly smooth.  I had some trouble with the men, but nothing serious, as Watkins and Harwood held as I did, and the pledge of Dorothy’s influence brought courage.  I refused to open the chest, believing our safety, and chance of pardon, would depend largely on our handing this over in good faith to the authorities.  Watkins and I guarded it night and day, until the schooner rounded the Cape and came into the Chesapeake.  No attempt was made to find quarters below, the entire crew sleeping on deck, Dorothy comfortable on the flag locker.