armour of resolution, are ready to fight a losing battle to the last; the desire of peace waxes stronger as hope declines, till at last it conquers the very desire of life.  Which of us here has not observed this, or maybe experienced something of that feeling in his own person—­this extreme weariness of emotions, the vanity of effort, the yearning for rest?  Those striving with unreasonable forces know it well,—­the shipwrecked castaways in boats, wanderers lost in a desert, men battling against the unthinking might of nature, or the stupid brutality of crowds.’

CHAPTER 8

’How long he stood stock-still by the hatch expecting every moment to feel the ship dip under his feet and the rush of water take him at the back and toss him like a chip, I cannot say.  Not very long—­two minutes perhaps.  A couple of men he could not make out began to converse drowsily, and also, he could not tell where, he detected a curious noise of shuffling feet.  Above these faint sounds there was that awful stillness preceding a catastrophe, that trying silence of the moment before the crash; then it came into his head that perhaps he would have time to rush along and cut all the lanyards of the gripes, so that the boats would float as the ship went down.

’The Patna had a long bridge, and all the boats were up there, four on one side and three on the other—­the smallest of them on the port-side and nearly abreast of the steering gear.  He assured me, with evident anxiety to be believed, that he had been most careful to keep them ready for instant service.  He knew his duty.  I dare say he was a good enough mate as far as that went.  “I always believed in being prepared for the worst,” he commented, staring anxiously in my face.  I nodded my approval of the sound principle, averting my eyes before the subtle unsoundness of the man.

’He started unsteadily to run.  He had to step over legs, avoid stumbling against the heads.  Suddenly some one caught hold of his coat from below, and a distressed voice spoke under his elbow.  The light of the lamp he carried in his right hand fell upon an upturned dark face whose eyes entreated him together with the voice.  He had picked up enough of the language to understand the word water, repeated several times in a tone of insistence, of prayer, almost of despair.  He gave a jerk to get away, and felt an arm embrace his leg.

’"The beggar clung to me like a drowning man,” he said impressively.  “Water, water!  What water did he mean?  What did he know?  As calmly as I could I ordered him to let go.  He was stopping me, time was pressing, other men began to stir; I wanted time—­time to cut the boats adrift.  He got hold of my hand now, and I felt that he would begin to shout.  It flashed upon me it was enough to start a panic, and I hauled off with my free arm and slung the lamp in his face.  The glass jingled, the light went out, but the blow