“Of what?” inquired Martin, looking through the ratlines.

“Of a woman.”

And Martin Bukaty’s answer was lost in the roar of the wind as he went aloft.

They lay on the fore-yard for half an hour, talking from time to time in breathless monosyllables, for the wind was gathering itself together for that last effort which usually denotes the end of a gale.  Then Captain Petersen pointed his steady hand almost straight ahead.  On the gray horizon a little column of smoke rose like a pillar.  It was a steamer approaching before the wind.

Captain Cable came on at a great pace.  His ship was very low in the water, and kicked up awkwardly on a following sea.  He swung round the beacon on the shoulder of a great wave that turned him over till the rounded wet sides of the steamer gleamed like a whale’s back.  He disappeared into the haze nearer the land, and presently emerged again astern of the Olaf, a black nozzle of iron and an intermittent fan of spray.  He was crashing into the seas at full speed—­a very different kind of sailor to the careful captain of the Olaf.  His low decks were clear, and each sea leaped over the bow and washed aft—­green and white.  As the little steamer came down he suddenly slackened speed, and waved his hand as he stood alone on the high bridge.

Then two or three oilskin-clad figures crept forward into the spray that still broke over the bows.  The crew of the Olaf, crowding to the rail, looked down on the deeply laden little vessel from the height of their dry and steady deck.  They watched the men working quickly almost under water on the low forecastle, and saw that it was good.  Captain Cable stood swaying on the bridge—­a little, square figure in gleaming oilskins—­and said no word.  He had a picked crew.

He passed ahead of the Olaf and anchored there, paying out cable as if he were going to ride out a cyclone.  The steamer had no name visible, a sail hanging carelessly over the stern completely hid name and port of registry.  Her forward name-boards had been removed.  Whatever his business was, this seaman knew it well.

No sooner was his anchor down than Captain Cable began to lower a boat, and Petersen, seeing the action, broke into mild Scandinavian profanity.  “He is going to try and get to us!” he said, pessimistically, and went forward to give the necessary orders.  He knew his business, too, this Northern sailor, and when, after a long struggle, the boat containing Captain Cable and two men came within reach, a rope—­cleverly thrown—­coiled out into the flying scud and fell across the captain’s face.

A few minutes later he scrambled on to the deck of the Olaf and shook hands with Captain Petersen.  He did not at once recognize Prince Martin, who held out his hand.

“Glad to see you, Captain Cable,” he said.  Cable finished drying the salt water from his face with a blue cotton handkerchief before he shook hands.