an immortal flame, and in its light the boyish features seemed almost transfigured. Holding to the standing rigging, he waved to the old engineer.
"Good old Scotty, good-bye and good luck!"
Reaching under his oilskins, he drew forth a packet, clenched it in his fist as though weighing precious gold and tossed it to him.
"Get it to Sally Fell," was his last order as a long swell took the boat on its acre-wide shoulder and bore it away from the ship.
And then as, true to the old traditions of the sea, he waited for the final plunge, somehow in sublime irony, now that its work was done, the storm lulled.
As the skies began to lighten, a half mile away he could still see the last boat. But whether because the cowardly majority of its crew over-ruled old Scotty and the loyal hands, or because the seas still ran too high to effect a rescue, it disappeared, and he was left alone on the deep. The wind died down, the clouds rifted in the north, but the long rollers still broke against the sides of the doomed vessel.
For a moment he leaned against the shrouds in despair. The bright vision had gone, hidden in its enshrouding cloak, but another came to him out of the dying storm,—a red tam o' shanter, lustrous black curls, and eyes with gleams like phosphor flashes on the midnight sea.
He looked up, murmuring a sailor s prayer. As if in answer, a solitary star shone in the rifts of the clouds. Its rays were a symbol of hope and he said to himself:
