Then at last the form of Miss Macrae, in an elegant and tasteful yachting costume, appeared on the deck of the submarine.  The boat’s crew of the Flora Macdonald (to whom she was endeared) lifted their oars and cheered.  The masked pirate in command handed her into a boat of the Flora’s with stately courtesy, placing in her hand a bouquet of the rarest orchids.  He then placed his hand on his heart, and bowed with a grace remarkable in one of his trade.  This man was no common desperado.

The crew pulled off, and at that moment, to the horror of all who were on the Flora’s deck, two slight jars again thrilled through her from stem to stern.

Mr. Macrae and Bude gazed on each other with ashen faces.  What had occurred?  But still the boat’s crew pulled gallantly towards the Flora, and, in a few moments, Miss Macrae stepped on deck, and was in her father’s arms.  It was a scene over which art cannot linger.  Self-restraint was thrown to the winds; the father and child acted as if no eyes were regarding them.  Miss Macrae sobbed convulsively, her sire was shaken by long-pent emotion.  Bude had averted his gaze, he looked towards the submarine, on the deck of which the crew were busy, beginning to lower the bullion into the interior.

To Bude’s extreme and speechless amazement, another periscope arose from ocean at about fifty yards from the further side of the submarine!  Bude spoke no word; the father and daughter were absorbed in each other; the crew had no eyes but for them.

Presently, unmarked by the busy seamen of the hostile submarine, the platform and look-out hood of another submarine appeared.  The new boat seemed to be pointing directly for the middle of the hostile submarine and at right angles to it.

‘Hands up!’ pealed a voice from the second submarine.

It was the voice of Merton!

At the well-known sound Miss Macrae tore herself from her father’s embrace and hurried below.  She deemed that a fond illusion of the senses had beguiled her.

Mr. Macrae looked wildly towards the two submarines.

The masked captain of the hostile vessel, leaping up, shook his fist at the Flora Macdonald and yelled, ’Damn your foolish treachery, you money-grubbing hunks!  You have a consort.’

‘I assure you that nobody is more surprised than myself,’ cried Mr. Macrae.

’One minute more and you, your ship, and your crew will be sent to your own place!’ yelled the masked captain.

He vanished below, doubtless to explode the mines under the Flora.

Bude crossed himself; Mr. Macrae, folding his arms, stood calm and defiant on his deck.  One sailor (the cook) leaped overboard in terror, the others hastily drew themselves up in a double line, to die like Britons.

A minute passed, a minute charged with terror.  Mr. Macrae took out his watch to mark the time.  Another minute passed, and no explosion.