e aboard. Meanwhile, it was best to bring her under some sort
of control, the steam steering-gear, driven by the uninjured
donkey-engine, being yet available.

In the saloon, Elsie had shielded her face in her hands, to hide the
tears which the entreaty of the hymn had brought to her eyes. Some one
whispered to her:

"Won't you sing something, Miss Maxwell?"

It was the American. He judged that the sweet voice which
unconsciously led the singing of the hymn must be skilled in other
music.

She looked up at him, her eyes shining.

"Sing! Do you think it possible?" she asked.

"Yes. You can do a brave thing, I guess, and that would be brave."

"I will try," she said, and she walked to the piano which was screwed
athwart the deck in front of the polished mahogany sheath of the steel
mainmast. It was in her mind to play some lively excerpts from the
light operas then in vogue, but the secret influences of the hour were
stronger than her studied intent, and, when her fingers touched the
keys, they wandered, almost without volition, into the subtle harmonies
of Gounod's "Ave Maria." She played the air first; then, gaining
confidence, she sang the words, using a Spanish version which had
caught her fancy. It was good to see the flashing eyes and impassioned
gestures of the Chilean stewards when they found that she was singing
in their own language. These men, owing to their acquaintance with the
sea and knowledge of the coast, were now in a state of panic; they
would have burst the bonds of discipline on the least pretext. So, as
it chanced, the voice of the English senorita reached them as the
message of an angel, and the spell she cast over them did not lose its
potency during some hours of dangerous toil. Here, again, was found
one of the comparatively trivial incidents which contributed materially
to the working out of a strange drama, because anything in the nature
of a mutinous orgy breaking out in the first part of that
soul-destroying night must have instantly converted the ship into a
blood-bespattered Inferno.

Excited applause rewarded the song. Fired by example, the dapper
French Count approached the piano and asked Elsie if she could play
Beranger's "Roi d'Yvetot." She repressed a smile at his choice, but
the chance that presented itself of initiating a concert on the spur of
the moment was too good to be lost, so M. de Poincilit, in a nice light
tenor, told how

Il etait un roi d'Yvetot