P.S.--That was a great match.--J.
Howard laughed bitterly. Then he turned and descended the stairs.
“Jackson has gone on an errand to Mrs. Joyce,” he said. “He left his
pistol for you. After what has happened, he thinks, and I think, that
you had better be armed. If any man--if _any_ man molests you do not
hesitate to use it. I believe you told me once that you were rather a
good shot.”
It had been no part of Howard’s intention to spend the night upon the
Queen. He had no faith in Forbes’s protestations of fair play, and
felt certain that he would hear from that individual very shortly and
in unpleasant fashion. Although he scarcely expected any attack that
night, doubting Forbes’s ability to bring his men to the fighting point
so speedily, he intended to take no chances, and to seek sleeping
quarters on some near-by vessel. But Dorothy’s fear of himself and her
very evident nearness to collapse, taken with Jackson’s unexpected
departure, had knocked his plans completely on the head.
After Dorothy had retired, he sat up for some time considering the
situation. He was terribly sore and wearied from the heart-breaking
struggle of the afternoon, which had been nothing like so easy as
he had portrayed it to Dorothy. Coming on top of the anxiety of his
confinement, in ignorance of what was happening to the girl he had
promised to restore to her home, it had nearly worn him out. The
question that presented itself to him was whether he should trust to
his belief in Forbes’s inability to resume the struggle so quickly, and
take his much-needed rest so as to be ready for the probable stress of
the morrow, or whether he should remain on watch all night and thereby
be less efficient the next day, supposing the contest were put off till
then.
Doubts and difficulties lay in each alternative, but he finally decided
to sleep while he could, trusting to his life-long ability to awake
fully and instantly at the slightest unaccustomed sound. He did not
believe that Forbes and his men could steal upon him without waking
him; and, in any event, he could not hope, alone and unarmed, to keep
them off the ship.
So, after stringing several ropes across the gangway in the deepest
shadows of the Queen’s deck, he slipped into his state-room, just
across the corridor from Dorothy’s, and lay down, fully dressed,
with an axe--his sole weapon, since he had given Dorothy Jackson’s
pistol--close beside him. In an instant he was fast asleep.
He was aroused several hours later by a sound whose cause he had no
difficulty in interpreting. Somebody had tripped over one of the ropes
he had stretched, and had fallen. Instantly he was on his feet, axe in
hand, and was cautiously opening his door. Stillness now reigned, but
Howard had no doubt that murder was stalking close at hand.
With infinite precaution he stole from the room, noted that Dorothy’s
door was still fast, and slipped like a shadow along the corridor. It
took him half an hour to gain the other deck, scarcely fifty feet from
where he had slept. But when he had done so, he was certain that no
foes lurked in his rear.
The moon loomed huge in the cloudless sky as he peered from the door
of the social hall. Before him the deck stretched away, silvery-white
except where criss-crossed by the black shadows cast by the stanchions
that supported the half-furled awnings, and by the narrow border of
shadow cast by the awnings themselves.
Slowly he crept out into the black border and made his way forward,
eager to front the danger, whatever it might be.
But all was still save for a very faint, rustling sound impossible to
locate--a sound like dry leaves whisking through a November night; a
sound that made Howard’s hair stir upon his head. At two o’clock in the
morning courage is rare, and never perfect.
Still Howard crept on until he reached a spot where a broken boat-davit
was twisted across a stanchion. By this he paused and stood listening.
Then, without warning, the attack came. From the cross-beam overhead
something fell upon him with cruel force--something heavy, crushing,
deadly; some live thing that wrapped him round and round.
[Illustration: THE END COULD NOT BE LONG DEFERRED; YET THE MAN FOUGHT
ON.]
With a half-strangled shriek of terror he caught himself back
against the crossed davit and the stanchion, just in time to involve
them in the coiling horror. His right arm, instinctly thrown aloft,
grasped vainly at the throat of a huge serpent whose darting head cut
fantastic silhouettes against the Milky Way, while its body tightened
swiftly about his middle.
Had it not been for the iron rods that shielded him, Howard’s first cry
would have been his last. To the great snake the resistance of a man’s
body was as nothing. One unhampered constriction of its mighty coils
would have crushed an ox. But the davit and the stanchion stood firm;
not for nothing had they been planned to withstand the assaults of the
sea. They held firm, while Howard, with starting eyeballs and slowly
crushing chest, strove to beat back the forked death that flicked about
his face.
The end could not be long deferred; yet the man fought on, as living
things will fight for life--life so common, life so cheap, yet so
desperately clung to. He fought and shrieked until the ever-tightening
constriction stopped the inflation of his lungs; till the roaring in
his ears swelled to thunder; till the driven blood burst from his ears
and nostrils.
Then came a flash and a louder roar; the gleaming eyes that confronted
him grew suddenly dull; the great coils relaxed and fell away; dimly he
saw Dorothy’s face; her gown white in the moonlight; the smoking pistol
in her hand.
Then girl and snake and moon and sky blended in one common blur of
blackness. For the first time in his life Frank Howard fainted.
When he came to, he was lying on the deck, with his head in Dorothy’s
lap. On his face her tears dropped slowly, one by one. As, dazed, he
lay still for an instant, he heard her pray:
“Oh, God! God!” she sobbed, “give him back to me! Give my darling back
to me.”
A mad throb of exultation crossed through Howard’s veins to be followed
by a quicker revulsion. “Not yet, oh, God!” he implored in his turn
silently. “Not until----”
He opened his eyes and looked up into hers.
The moonlight was white and bright as day, and for one moment each
looked deep into the other’s heart.
“Thank God! Oh, thank God!” sobbed the girl. “You’re alive! Alive!
Alive!”
Howard tried to smile. “Thanks to you,” he answered. “It was the
bravest act I have ever known. I don’t see how----”
But Dorothy threw up her hand. “Please! Please, don’t speak of it!” she
implored. “I can’t bear it. I can’t bear it.”
Howard struggled to his feet. He longed to take her in his arms and
comfort her, but honor held him back. Perhaps she loved him--yes, but
she was overwrought. He could not take advantage of her emotion--nor
of her position. Later, when she was restored to her friends--the light
died from his eyes as he remembered his own doom.
“Thank you,” he said softly. “It is all that I can say. Thank you.”
Dorothy’s bosom heaved. “No,” she said, “it is not all. You said more
while you were unconscious. You were about to say more an instant ago.
Then you stopped. Why?”
“I--I----”
“I could read your heart in your eyes. Say what you had in it. Say it!
Say it!”
“I am not worthy. I am----”
“Hush! Not that! You are not guilty. You could not be guilty. You! so
brave, so tender, so sacrificing! You! to murder a woman. It is not
true. Since the day I first met you I have never believed it. Since you
told me the story, I have wanted no other testimony. Now, will you say
what was in your heart a moment ago?”
“I cannot. I----”
“Listen. To-night I said that we were mere acquaintances. I said I did
not love you. I lied! I do love you. With all my heart and soul I love
you.”
“Dorothy!”
“Frank! Husband!”