His speech and his departure extinguished instantly those sparks of better humour kindled by the dinner and the chest.  The group fell again to an ill-favoured silence, and Hemstead began to touch the banjo, as was his habit of an evening.  His repertory was small:  the chords of Home, Sweet Home fell under his fingers; and when he had played the symphony, he instinctively raised up his voice.  “Be it never so ’umble, there’s no plyce like ’ome,” he sang.  The last word was still upon his lips, when the instrument was snatched from him and dashed into the fire; and he turned with a cry to look into the furious countenance of Mac.

“I’ll be damned if I stand this!” cried the captain, leaping up belligerent.

“I told ye I was a voilent man,” said Mac, with a movement of deprecation very surprising in one of his character.  “Why don’t he give me a chance then?  Haven’t we enough to bear the way we are?” And to the wonder and dismay of all, the man choked upon a sob.  “It’s ashamed of meself I am,” he said presently, his Irish accent twenty-fold increased.  “I ask all your pardons for me voilence; and especially the little man’s, who is a harmless crayture, and here’s me hand to’m, if he’ll condescind to take me by ’t.”

So this scene of barbarity and sentimentalism passed off, leaving behind strange and incongruous impressions.  True, every one was perhaps glad when silence succeeded that all too appropriate music; true, Mac’s apology and subsequent behaviour rather raised him in the opinion of his fellow-castaways.  But the discordant note had been struck, and its harmonics tingled in the brain.  In that savage, houseless isle, the passions of man had sounded, if only for the moment, and all men trembled at the possibilities of horror.

It was determined to stand watch and watch in case of passing vessels; and Tommy, on fire with an idea, volunteered to stand the first.  The rest crawled under the tent, and were soon enjoying that comfortable gift of sleep, which comes everywhere and to all men, quenching anxieties and speeding time.  And no sooner were all settled, no sooner had the drone of many snorers begun to mingle with and overcome the surf, than Tommy stole from his post with the case of sherry, and dropped it in a quiet cove in a fathom of water.  But the stormy inconstancy of Mac’s behaviour had no connection with a gill or two of wine; his passions, angry and otherwise, were on a different sail plan from his neighbours’; and there were possibilities of good and evil in that hybrid Celt beyond their prophecy.

About two in the morning, the starry sky—­or so it seemed, for the drowsy watchman had not observed the approach of any cloud—­brimmed over in a deluge; and for three days it rained without remission.  The islet was a sponge, the castaways sops; the view all gone, even the reef concealed behind the curtain of the falling water.  The fire was soon drowned out; after a couple of boxes of matches had been scratched in vain, it was decided to wait for better weather; and the party lived in wretchedness on raw tins and a ration of hard bread.