But the vessel slowly, but very surely, was falling off the wind; it would soon blow astern.  The shelter of the after deck-house would serve for a while, perhaps until some vessel, attracted by the terrible light, would bring them succor.  Dan placed the girl behind this steel structure and then, running to the taffrail, leaned far out and called to the boats.  But the roar of the flames drowned his cries, and the boats, which had moved out to windward, could not see him.  Foot by foot crept the fire; but the stiff wind which finally came over the stern did its work well, and the red avalanche began to slant toward the bow.  This meant respite.  But he knew that at the very best it could be only a respite, and short at that.

Again and again and again he called for the boats, until his voice grew husky and faint.  Then, hopeless of aid from his men, he returned to the girl.  She was exactly where he had left her, slightly crouching as though to shut from her eyes the fearful red light.

The wind rush had revived her smoke-dimmed senses.  When she was approaching the star-board boat to which her father had directed her she had lost her head, as persons will do in time of fire, and had wandered mechanically, unconsciously, to her cabin and locked herself in.  But she was not frightened now.  There was that in Dan which she trusted.  She looked at him strangely and smiled.  She caressed him with her eyes, trusting in, hanging upon, the strength of a man who possessed in divine measure all of man’s strength.

A half-hour they crouched together, until the steel walls of their shelter burned to the touch, until the flames licked up over the forward end, ran over the roof, and looked down upon them.  But still they remained as they were, while the Tampico circled again and brought the wind in their faces, which they drank greedily.

There came a time when the fire hissed constantly on the deck-house—­when, indeed, flames plunged around it and touched the two figures.  Swiftly Dan reached out his arm and encircled the waist of his companion and drew her to the taffrail.

Four feet below the gilded name on the stern was a six-inch ledge.  He lifted the girl as he would a child and placed her on this ledge, bidding her hold to the rail.  Then he passed a section of small chain about a stanchion, allowing the end to hang over.  If the rail became too hot for their hands they could hold by the chain.

As Dan joined Virginia on the ledge the vessel slued around, bringing the wind full over the bow.  With a roaring shout of exultation the fire bridged the last gap, bursting clear over the stern.  It bit at their hands; they withdrew them, supporting themselves by the swinging chain.

The girl moaned.  Nearer drew the hot breath.  She felt Dan’s arm tighten about her waist.  It was like a curved bar of steel.  Looking down, she saw the water racing below—­she saw a wave leap up—­she felt it touch her foot with its feathery head, gently, beneficently, and yet traitorously; for how quickly would it quench the lives that it seemed to tempt from the flames!