the lee of the bulwark, he accidentally overheard a conversation going
on upon the slip below that set his blood on fire.

The carpenters had just come to their work, and one of them was telling
the story of old Jacob's death, and of the heroism which his
granddaughter had displayed.

"They say," he went on, "that Captain Beck is to have him buried on
Monday next, and that he is to provide for the granddaughter--the navy
lieutenant has seen to that."

The noise and the clinking of the hammers that were now at work made
Salvé lose a good deal of the conversation here.

"There is good reason for that, mind you," was the next observation he
caught, made in a somewhat lower tone, and accompanied by a doubtful
laugh. "It is not for nothing that he has been out so constantly
shooting sea-fowl about Torungen."

"Would she be a--sea-bird of that feather? Old Jacob, I should have
thought, was not the kind of man--"

"Well, perhaps not that altogether; but the first thing she did was to
come straight over here; and he has had her already taken into his own
house. I have that from the aunt. The old woman had no suspicion of
anything, but told me quite innocently that now she was to be a sort of
housekeeper with the Becks."

A slight noise above him here caused the speaker to look up. A deadly
pale young sailor was staring down at him over the ship's side with a