blow your brains all over the cabin!"

The young man broke.

"I was trying to pick up the _Blucher_," he acknowledged.

"That's exactly what I thought," Crawshay muttered. "That's the game,
without a doubt. What are you? An Englishman?"

"I am not!" was the almost fierce reply. "Blast England!"

Crawshay looked into the black eyes, suddenly lit with an ugly fire,
and nodded.

"I understand," he said. "Robins, your name, eh? Any relation to the
young Sinn Feiner who was shot in Dublin a few months ago?"

"Brother."

"That may save your life later on," Crawshay observed coolly. "Now you
can do one of three things. You can come with me to the captain, be
put in irons and shot as soon as we land--or before, if the _Blucher_
finds us; or you can send the message which I shall give you; or you
can end your days where you sit."

"What message?" the young man demanded.

"You will send out a general call, as before, repeating the latitude
and longitude with a difference of exactly three points, and you will
repeat the altered course, only you will substitute the word 'south'