’"And I had heard nothing!  Well—­so be it.  But the lights!  The lights did go!  We did not see them.  They were not there.  If they had been, I would have swam back—­I would have gone back and shouted alongside—­I would have begged them to take me on board. . . .  I would have had my chance. . . .  You doubt me? . . .  How do you know how I felt? . . .  What right have you to doubt? . . .  I very nearly did it as it was—­do you understand?” His voice fell.  “There was not a glimmer—­not a glimmer,” he protested mournfully.  “Don’t you understand that if there had been, you would not have seen me here?  You see me—­and you doubt.”

’I shook my head negatively.  This question of the lights being lost sight of when the boat could not have been more than a quarter of a mile from the ship was a matter for much discussion.  Jim stuck to it that there was nothing to be seen after the first shower had cleared away; and the others had affirmed the same thing to the officers of the Avondale.  Of course people shook their heads and smiled.  One old skipper who sat near me in court tickled my ear with his white beard to murmur, “Of course they would lie.”  As a matter of fact nobody lied; not even the chief engineer with his story of the mast-head light dropping like a match you throw down.  Not consciously, at least.  A man with his liver in such a state might very well have seen a floating spark in the corner of his eye when stealing a hurried glance over his shoulder.  They had seen no light of any sort though they were well within range, and they could only explain this in one way:  the ship had gone down.  It was obvious and comforting.  The foreseen fact coming so swiftly had justified their haste.  No wonder they did not cast about for any other explanation.  Yet the true one was very simple, and as soon as Brierly suggested it the court ceased to bother about the question.  If you remember, the ship had been stopped, and was lying with her head on the course steered through the night, with her stern canted high and her bows brought low down in the water through the filling of the fore-compartment.  Being thus out of trim, when the squall struck her a little on the quarter, she swung head to wind as sharply as though she had been at anchor.  By this change in her position all her lights were in a very few moments shut off from the boat to leeward.  It may very well be that, had they been seen, they would have had the effect of a mute appeal—­that their glimmer lost in the darkness of the cloud would have had the mysterious power of the human glance that can awaken the feelings of remorse and pity.  It would have said, “I am here—­still here” . . . and what more can the eye of the most forsaken of human beings say?  But she turned her back on them as if in disdain of their fate:  she had swung round, burdened, to glare stubbornly at the new danger of the open sea which she so strangely survived to end her days in a breaking-up yard, as