He broke off, and turning from the Star, now very near her death, swept with his gaze the billowing ocean.  “I would we might see the Mere Honour and the Marigold,” he said, impatiently.  “What is lost is lost, and Captain Baldry as well as we must stand this crippling of our enterprise.  But the Mere Honour and the Marigold are of more account than the Star.”

Out of a cluster of mariners and landsmen rose Robin-a-dale’s shrill cry:  “She’s going down, down, down!  Oh, the white figurehead looks no more into the sea—­it turns its face to the sky!  Down, down, the Star has gone down!”

A silence fell upon the decks of the Cygnet and upon the overfreighted boats laboring towards her.  Overhead mast and spar creaked and the low wind sang in the rigging, but the spirit of man was awed within him.  A ship was lost, and the sea was lonely beneath the crimson dawn.  Where were the Mere Honour and the Marigold, and was all their adventure but a mirage and a cheat?  Far away was home, and far away the Indies, and the Cygnet was a little feather tossed between red sky and heaving ocean.

The thought did not last.  As the crowded boats drew alongside, up sprang the sun, cheering and warming, and at the Captain’s command the musicians of the Cygnet began to play, as at the setting of the watch, a psalm of thanksgiving.  Sailors and volunteers, there had been but sixty men aboard the Star, and all were safe.  As they clambered over the side, a cheer went up from their comrades of the Cygnet.

The boat that carried Baldry came last, and that adventurer was the latest to set foot upon the Cygnet’s deck.  Her Captain met him with bared head and outstretched hand.

“We grieve with you, sir, for the loss of the Star,” he said, gravely and courteously.  “We thank God that no brave man went down with her.  The Cygnet gives you welcome, sir.”

The man to whom he spoke ignored alike words and extended hand.  A towering figure, breathing bitter anger at this spite of Fortune, he turned where he stood and gazed upon the ocean that had swallowed up his ship.  Uncouth of nature, given to boasting, a foster-child of Violence and Envy, he yet had qualities which had borne him upward and onward from mean beginnings to where on yesterday he had stood, owner and Captain of the Star, leader of picked men, sea-dog and adventurer as famed for daredevil courage and boundless endurance as for his braggadocio vein and sullen temper.  Now the Star that he had loved was at the bottom of the sea; his men, a handful beside the Cygnet’s force, must give obedience to her officers; and he himself,—­what was he more than a volunteer aboard his enemy’s ship?  Captain Robert Baldry, grinding his teeth, found the situation intolerable.

Sir Mortimer Ferne, biting his lip in a sudden revulsion of feeling, was of much the same opinion.  But that he would follow after courtesy was as certain as that Baldry would pursue his own will and impulse.  Therefore he spoke again, though scarce as cordially as before: