This suggestion was answered by a yell of protest from the men on the
cliff.

"If ye be afeard o' her, ye white-livered swile, what d'ye want me to do
wid her?"

"T'row her overboard! Heave her into the sea!" "Aye, t'row her
overboard. She bes the devil hisself! T'ree good lads bes kilt dead by
her already. T'row her overboard!"

"There bain't a man amongst ye wid the heart o' a white-coat," returned
the skipper. "Afeared o' a poor drownded wench, be ye?"

This taunt was received in sullen silence. The skipper stood firm on the
listed deck, his feet set well apart and his shoulders squared, and
leered up at them. Then, stooping forward quickly, he plucked the
pendants from those bloodless ears, and set the body rolling into the
starboard scuppers and overboard to the frothing surf and slobbering
rocks. From the cliff a cry as of mingled relief and dismay rang down to
him. He moved forward and swarmed the foremast to the cross-trees. There
he paused for a few moments to glance across. He saw that Bill Brennen,
Nick Leary, his brother Cormick and several of the men whom he had
rescued from the flooded cabin had clustered around the shore-end of the
hawser. He saw that they feared treachery. He made his way across, cool,
fearless, with a dangerous smile on his lips.