came to. Destiny was a conviction with him, and not a word at all--a
nameless conviction. He did not consider the future anew; but he felt,
without analyzing it, a breathless, new curiosity of what the morrow
might hold for him. This sensation was in connection with the girl.
Apart from her, his old plans and ambitions stood. He felt no
uncertainty and no curiosity concerning the morrow's dealings with the
men. He considered it a commonplace subject. He would act upon Bill
Brennen's advice and visit the mutineers at an early hour; and as to the
wreck?--well, if conditions proved favorable he would break out the
cargo and see what could be made of it.

Mother Nolan entered with an empty cup in her hand.

"She took her draught like a babe, an' bes sleepin' agin peaceful as an
angel," she whispered. "Mind ye makes no noise, Denny. No more o' yer
fightin' an' cursin' this night!"

Black Dennis Nolan put in a night of disturbed dreaming and crawled from
his bed before the first streak of dawn. He pulled on his heavy garments
and seal-hide "skinnywoppers," built up the fire in the stove, brewed
and gulped a mug of tea, and then unbolted the door noiselessly and went
out. The dawn was lifting by now, clear, glass-gray and narrow at the
rim of the sea to the eastward and southward. The air was still. The
lapping of the tide along the icy land-wash and the dull whispering of
it among the seaward rocks were the only sounds. The skipper stood
motionless beside his own door for a few minutes. Small windows blinked
alight here and there; faint, muffled sounds of awakening life came to
him from the cabins; pale streamers of smoke arose into the breathless
air from the little chimneys.