Fortunately Mr. Heatherbloom’s muscles were in good condition and there was not a superfluous ounce on him, but he needed all his energies to escape the fist and the boot that day, to keep pace with the others.  The perspiration poured from his face in sooty rivulets; he knew if he gave way what kind of consideration to expect.  He was being tested.  The foreman’s eyes, themselves, seemed full of sparks; there was something tentative, expectant in their curious gleam as they rested on him.  Heatherbloom now could hardly keep to his feet; his own eyes burned.  The flames danced as if with a living hatred of him; in a semi-stupor he almost forgot the sword, without, that swung over him, held but by a thread that might be cut any instant.

He could not have lasted many minutes more when relief came; sodden sullen men took the places.  Heatherbloom staggered out with his own herd; he felt the need of food as well as rest.  He groped his way somewhere—­into a dark close place; he found black-looking bread—­or, was it handed to him?  He ate, threw himself down, thought of her!—­then ceased to think at all.  The sword, his companions or specters no longer existed for him.

It may be some spiritual part of him during that physical coma, drew from a supermundane source beatific drafts, for he awoke refreshed, his mind clear, even alert.  He gazed around; he, alone, moved.  His companions resembled so many bags of rags cast here and there; only the snores, now diminuendo, then crescendo, dispelled the illusion.  A smoking lamp threw a paucity of light and a good deal of odor around them.  Was it night?  The shadows played hide-and-seek in corners; there was no sound of the sea.

Mr. Heatherbloom moved toward a door.  His pulses seemed to throb in rhythm with the engines whose strong pulsations shook those limp unconscious forms.  He opened the iron door and looked out.  Only blackness, relieved by a low-power electric light, met his gaze.  He crept from the place.

Why did not some one rise up to detain him?  Surely he was watched.  He experienced an uncanny sense of being allowed to proceed just so far, when invisible fingers would pounce upon him, to hurl him back.  The soot still lay on his face; he had seen no bucket and water.  At the mouth of a tunnel-like aperture, he hesitated, but still no one sprang in front, or glided up from behind to interfere with his progress.  He went on; a perpendicular iron ladder enabled him to reach an open space on the deserted lower deck.  Another ladder led to the upper deck.  Could he mount it and still escape detection?  And in that case—­to what end?

A bell struck the hour.  Nine o’clock!  He counted the strokes.  Much time had, indeed, passed since leaving port.  The yacht, he judged, should be capable of sixteen knots.  Where were they now?  And where was she—­in what part of the boat had they confined the young girl?  Come what might, he would try to ascertain.  Creeping softly up the second ladder, he peered around.  Still he saw no one.  It was a dark night; a shadow lay like a blanket on the sea.  He felt for his revolver—­they had not taken it from him—–­ and started to make his way cautiously aft, when something he saw brought him to an abrupt halt.