An hour went by, while the day came brighter, and the sun rose and drank up the clouds:  an hour of silence in the ship, an hour of agony beyond narration for the sufferers.  Brown’s gabbling prayers, the cries of the sailors in the rigging, strains of the dead Hemstead’s minstrelsy, ran together in Carthew’s mind, with sickening iteration.  He neither acquitted nor condemned himself:  he did not think, he suffered.  In the bright water into which he stared, the pictures changed and were repeated:  the baresark rage of Goddedaal; the blood-red light of the sunset into which they had run forth; the face of the babbling Chinaman as they cast him over; the face of the captain, seen a moment since, as he awoke from drunkenness into remorse.  And time passed, and the sun swam higher, and his torment was not abated.

Then were fulfilled many sayings, and the weakest of these condemned brought relief and healing to the others.  Amalu the drudge awoke (like the rest) to sickness of body and distress of mind; but the habit of obedience ruled in that simple spirit, and appalled to be so late, he went direct into the galley, kindled the fire, and began to get breakfast.  At the rattle of dishes, the snapping of the fire, and the thin smoke that went up straight into the air, the spell was lifted.  The condemned felt once more the good dry land of habit under foot; they touched again the familiar guide-ropes of sanity; they were restored to a sense of the blessed revolution and return of all things earthly.  The captain drew a bucket of water and began to bathe.  Tommy sat up, watched him awhile, and slowly followed his example; and Carthew, remembering his last thoughts of the night before, hastened to the cabin.

Mac was awake; perhaps had not slept.  Over his head Goddedaal’s canary twittered shrilly from its cage.

“How are you?” asked Carthew.

“Me arrum’s broke,” returned Mac; “but I can stand that.  It’s this place I can’t abide.  I was coming on deck anyway.”

“Stay where you are, though,” said Carthew.  “It’s deadly hot above, and there’s no wind.  I’ll wash out this——­” and he paused, seeking a word and not finding one for the grisly foulness of the cabin.

“Faith, I’ll be obliged to ye, then,” replied the Irishman.  He spoke mild and meek, like a sick child with its mother.  There was now no violence in the violent man; and as Carthew fetched a bucket and swab and the steward’s sponge, and began to cleanse the field of battle, he alternately watched him or shut his eyes and sighed like a man near fainting.  “I have to ask all your pardons,” he began again presently, “and the more shame to me as I got ye into trouble and couldn’t do nothing when it came.  Ye saved me life, sir; ye’re a clane shot.”

“For God’s sake, don’t talk of it!” cried Carthew.  “It can’t be talked of; you don’t know what it was.  It was nothing down here; they fought.  On deck—­O, my God!” And Carthew, with the bloody sponge pressed to his face, struggled a moment with hysteria.