Just as the schooner gathered way I heard a horrible shriek, and looking over the quarter saw a smother of phosphorescent light in the blackness of the water and the rushing fins of several sharks which made trails of light similar to the streaks of a match when struck on the wall of a dark room. I knew what that meant, and that the schooner had seen the last of Captain Dane.
The captain's wife lay senseless on the mattress, but she was not dead. The knife had entered her breast high up and evidently gone deep. Mr. Chris got her below—half dragging, half carrying her—and did what he could to stop the bleeding. Once he came the companion way and said to me—"Will she run before it?"
"I'll keep her as long as! can, sir," I answered,—but the sea was getting up quickly, and I knew he would have to heave-to, sooner or later.
"There's nothing in your way—run her all you can."
"Run her all I can, sir? Aye, aye, sir!"
He went below again.
The seas began to follow too fast, and after about an hour of hard sailing I was afraid they would smother her. I yelled out to Mr. Chris, and he came up on deck looking dazed and ten years older.
Mechanically he set about heaving the schooner to. She was a little beauty to handle, and came up to the wind like a bird, and rode on the gale quietly with a tarpaulin seized in the main rigging and her stern staysail hauled well to windward. I lashed the helm and then set about helping the mate.
"The captain's gone, sir!" I said.
"I know. Yes, I know," his mind seemed wandering. "It's awful—awful!"
"How is she, sir?"
"I don't know. She isn't conscious, but she isn't
