The shots seemed to awaken Captain Swope from his surprise and terror.  He had suddenly moved with catlike swiftness; when I lowered my eyes from the rigging, I saw he had left his refuge behind the mizzenmast and was standing in the open deck.  Aye, there he stood in that light, which had reached its maximum, revealed to all eyes—­and stamped upon his face was an expression of insane fury so terrible and deadly he seemed not a human being at all, but a mad beast crouched to spring.  His lips were drawn back from his teeth, and a froth appeared upon his black beard.  The crowd forward saw the demon unmasked in his face, even as I saw it, and from them arose a gasping “a-ah!” of horror.

The sound caused the lady, who was standing at Newman’s elbow, to turn around; or perhaps it was the feel of Swope’s burning eyes that spun her about so quickly.  He was raising his arm, the arm that held the gun, not quickly but slowly and carefully.  With a stab of horror I saw him aim, not at the man, but at the woman.

No outside power this time seemed to aid me.  I shot.  I should have hit the beast, he was not ten paces distant—­but only a click answered when my hammer fell.  My gun was empty.  I threw up my arm, intending to hurl the weapon, and I think I cried out.  Swope shot—­and the lady threw up her hands and fell.

You must understand, this all happened in a brief instant of time.  Aye, it was but a short moment since we stepped out on deck.  What happened after that shot must be measured by seconds.

For the lady was still falling, and my hand was still reaching behind me to gather energy for a throw, when Newman bore down upon his enemy.  I had not seen him turn around even, and there he was at arm’s grips with the captain.  There was another flash from Swope’s revolver, in Newman’s very face.  It was a miss, for Newman’s hands—­helpless lumps of flesh but a few moments before—­closed upon Swope’s neck.  I saw Newman’s face.  It was a terrible face, the face of an enraged and smiting god.  The great scar stood out like a dark line painted upon his forehead.

He lifted Swope from his feet with that throat grip.  He whirled him like a flail, and smashed him down upon the deck, and let him go.  And there Yankee Swope lay, sprawled, and still, his head bent back at a fatal angle.  A broken neck, as a glance at the lolling head would inform; and, as we discovered later, a broken back as well.  It was death that Newman’s bare hands dealt in that furious second.

Newman did not waste so much as a glance at the work of his hands.  He had turned to the lady, with a cry in his throat, a low cry of pain and grief—­which changed at once to a shout of gladness.  For the lady was stirring, getting to her feet, or trying to.

Newman gathered her slight form into his great arms.  I heard him exclaim, “Where, Mary?  Did it—­” And she answered, dazedly, “I am all right—­not hit.”  He took a step towards me, towards the companion.  The swelling murmur from the deck arrested him.