a mere impulse, the prompting of an unsuspected instinct. She might hate
his race, but he was still its slave. All his life he had been an
Ishmael, feared and disliked; humankind had given him only cause to hate
and despise it, and yet blood remained stronger than belief when a human
life was in peril. The young man laughed, and the boat's from the Francis
Cadman, drawing near, heard the mocking laughter and ceased rowing,
chilled with a superstitious terror.

'Good God!' cried the look-out, 'there's two of 'em.'

The sailors turned in their seats, staring in stupid awe at two heads
clearly visible in the moonlight that lay like silver gossamer on the
dark green sea--two heads where they had expected to find but one. The
boatswain, frozen in the forward movement of his swing, glared
open-mouthed, speechless; he felt his stiff hair stirring strangely under
his hat, a pronounced uneasiness moved in the boat. Only one woman had
fallen from the ship, and here, out in the deep trough of the lone sea,
they found two creatures, and one laughed eerily. Sailormen believed in
many awesome mysteries: ghosts and goblins peopled the ocean like a vast
graveyard. The boat held off, and no man spoke, but Ryan shivered under
his skin, and fumbled his memory for the name of a potent saint.

'Ahoy, there!' cried the young man impatiently; but winning no response,
he swam slowly to meet the boat as she drifted. He raised the girl, and
one of the men seized her mechanically, and drew her limp form from the
water. No hand was offered to the rescuer, but as the boat lifted he
seized her prow, and drew himself aboard. All eyes were upon him, staring
dubiously.

'Divil take me if it ain't the Hermit!' gasped Ryan, with an expiration