devil, whose ambition coolly plotted murder.  I was sailing under the black flag, to be hung if captured, compelled to act out the masquerade, a satellite of the most infamous villain who ever sacked a merchantman.  Why, the very name of Sanchez had been horror to me in the past—­yet here I actually was in charge of the deck of his death ship, searching for new victims, and only hoping that the arch villain might live to overthrow the even fouler demon who would succeed him if he died.  Already I knew murder had been done; that the coming morning would reveal some hideous tragedy, on which, perhaps my fate would depend.  Somewhere below in the dark lay a dead man, his sightless eyes staring upward.  The curse of crime was upon the vessel, and this, possibly, was only the beginning, whose end could not be foreseen.  And for what was I there?  The answer was not upon my lips, but in my heart—­Dorothy Fairfax.  I bowed my head on the rail, and stared out over the dark water, but I saw only her face.  No, I would not turn back; would not fail her.  Let the end be death, and disgrace, I meant to fight grimly on until that end came.  In that hour I knew she was more to me than life, or even honor.  Far more than mere duty bound me; I was prisoner to love.

The dawn came cold and gray, but with clearing skies.  The force of the wind increased, becoming unsteady, and causing a choppy sea, so that I felt impelled to lower the topsails and take a reef in the larger canvas.  Nothing was reported in sight, but to reassure myself, I climbed into the main crosstrees, and swept the horizon with a glass.  Not so much as a speck rewarded my efforts, and I descended the ratlines, shouting to the boatswain to call the port watch.  Watkins came aft to the wheel, and I sent the fellow thus relieved down into the cabin to rout out LeVere.  The two returned to deck together, the negro glancing about curiously without mounting the ladder.

“You call Senor Estada yet?” he questioned.

“No; I had no orders to do so.”

“He tol’ me call him at daylight.  Here you, Amada; go wake up the Senor.”

The seaman disappeared grumbling, while LeVere crossed the poop deck, and stood beside me looking out across the expanse of sea.

“No sail—­hey?  We hav’ bad luck—­too far north.”

“And west; we are out of the sea lanes; but if it keeps bright I’ll take an observation at noon.”

Amada emerged from the companion, and stared up at us, shading his mouth with one hand as he spoke.

“He answer nothing, Senor LeVere.”

“You rapped on the door?”

“Si, Senor; I strike with my fist, and my boot, but he never wake up.”

“Was the door locked?”

“I know not, Senor; I not try open it.”

LeVere gave utterance to an oath.

“The pig-headed swine,” he said fiercely.  “I suppose I’ll have to go myself.”

Our eyes met, and something seemed to bid me accompany him.