"It was funny about those verses coming to my mind, wasn't it, Marmion?"
he continued. And he began to repeat one of them, keeping time to the
wave-like metre with his cheroot, winding up with a quick, circular
movement, and putting it again between his lips:

"'There's never a ripple upon the tide,
There's never a breath or sound;
But over the waste the white wraiths glide,
To look for the souls of the drowned."'

Then he jumped off the berth where he had been sitting, put on his
jacket, said it was time to take his turn on the bridge, and prepared to
go out, having apparently dismissed Number 116 Intermediate from his
mind.

I went to Charles Boyd's cabin, and knocked gently. There was no
response. I entered. He lay sleeping soundly--the sleep that comes
after nervous exhaustion. I had a good chance to study him as he lay
there. The face was sensitive and well fashioned, but not strong; the
hands were delicate, yet firmly made. One hand was clinched upon that
portion of his breast where the portrait hung.




CHAPTER IV

THE TRAIL OF THE ISHMAELITE