the end of her life as she was, Abel Keeling was still jealous of her
dignity; the voice had a youngish ring; and it was not fitting that young
chins should be wagged about his galleon. He spoke curtly.

"You that spoke--are you the master of that ship?"

"_Officer of the watch_," the words floated back; "_the captain's
below_."

"Then send for him. It is with masters that masters hold speech," Abel
Keeling replied.

He could see the two shapes, flat and without relief, standing on a high
narrow structure with rails. One of them gave a low whistle, and seemed
to be fanning his face; but the other rumbled something into a sort of
funnel. Presently the two shapes became three. There was a murmuring,
as of a consultation, and then suddenly a new voice spoke. At its thrill
and tone a sudden tremor ran through Abel Keeling's frame. He wondered
what response it was that that voice found in the forgotten recesses of
his memory....

"_Ahoy!_" seemed to call this new yet faintly remembered voice. "_What's
all this about? Listen. We're His Majesty's destroyer_ Seapink, _out of
Devonport last October, and nothing particular the matter with us. Now
who are you?_"

"The _Mary of the Tower_, out of the Port of Rye on the day of Saint
Anne, and only two men--"

A gasp interrupted him.