“Appearance?” said Reyburn.  “Why the sea is as smooth as glass!”

“Too smooth by half, sir, with the barometer falling.  I’ve sailed with that glass a long time, and she’s never told me a lie yet.  We’ve already shortened sail.”

“So I see.  But why in the world did you do it, when you want every stitch of it out to catch what wind there is?  However, I am in no hurry,” said Reyburn laughing.  “Do as you please, skipper:  you’re sailing the ship.”

“I am sailing her, sir,” said the captain, a little nettled, “and sailing her on the edge of a hurricane.  You had better take the lady below, sir:  when it comes it will come with a crack.”  But Reyburn laughed at him again, and passed over to Helen’s side.

They sat together on the deck, Helen and Reyburn, long after all the others had gone to rest; for Mr. Sterling left the arrangement of etiquette and decorum to Lilian’s mother; and whether she were a purblind soul, looking delightedly at a new love-match, or whether, with any surmise of the state of things, she felt pleased that Reyburn, led by whatever inducement, should step aside from Lilian’s path, she gave no other sign than that when her early withdrawal from the scene left the deck clear for action.  As each in turn they fell away into their dreams, those below could still hear Helen singing; and if one there lay sleepless in the pauses of the singing, no one guessed it.  All the ship was in shadow save where a lantern shone, but Helen lingered, still irresolute.  Now and then she touched the Spanish guitar in the measure of some tune that flitted across her thoughts, now and then she sang the tune, now and then was silent.  She was half aware of what the approaching moments held—­was half afraid.  Was she to avenge herself upon the man who had destroyed her brother’s peace?  Faithful to Lilian should she go, or faithless stay?  He took the guitar himself and fingered the strings, making fewer chords than discords; her own fingers wandered to correct him; their hands met; the guitar slipped down unheeded; the grasp grew closer, grew warmer—­ah, Helen, was it Lilian of whom you thought, whom you would save?—­and then an arm was around her; shining eyes, only half guessed in the glimmer that the phosphorescent swells sent through the darkness, hung over her rosy upturned beauty; she was drawn forward unresisting, her head was on his breast, she, heard the heavy throbbing of his heart, and his lips lay on hers and seemed to draw her soul away.  And so they sat there in the deepening shadow, whispering in faint low whispers, thrilling with a great rapture, their lips meeting in long kisses.  Why should he think of Lilian?  Never once had he touched her mouth like this, had his arms closed round her so, had he felt the sighing of her breath.  As a pale white rushlight burns in the sun, that love seemed now, compared with this great sweet flame.  He bowed his face over Helen’s as she sat trembling in his embrace,