eadiness to obey. Courtenay relaxed his grip,
and, for a time, at least one member of the crew stuck to his post,
fearing the mad captain more than death.

A mob of stewards and kitchen hands came in a torrent up the saloon
stairs. Courtenay met them, a terrifying figure, and thrust a revolver
in their faces.

"Back!" he shouted, "or some of you will die here."

Even in their frenzy they believed him. The foremost slunk away, and
fought in a new terror with those who would urge them on. Gray,
bleeding from a cut across the forehead, knocked down a man who
brutally tore Isobel out of his path. Tollemache, a revolver in each
hand, set his back against the corner of the saloon at the foot of the
stairs.

"I'm with you, captain," he yelled.

Courtenay saw that he had conquered them--for the instant. He raised
his hand.

"Behave like men," he cried. "You can do no good by crowding the deck.
I am going to the bridge to see if it is possible to lower the boats.
Each boat's crew will be mustered in turn, passengers and men alike.
If you are cowards now you will throw away what chance there is of
saving your lives."

His voice rang out like a trumpet. His attitude cowed while it
reassured them. Men turned from one to another to ask what the senor
captain was saying. They understood much, but they wanted to make sure
of each word. Was there any hope? Now that the gates of death were
opening, he was a god in their eyes--a god who promised life in return
for obedience.

A revolver barked twice somewhere on deck. A bullet smashed one of the
windows of the music-room and lodged in a panel behind Courtenay. They
all heard the reports, but the captain promptly turned the incident to
advantage.

"You see we mean to maintain order," he said. "Mr. Malcolm, take care
that every one has a lifebelt."

A sort of cheer came from the men. Who could fail to believe in a
leader so cool and resourceful? He ran out into the darkness to
discover the cause of the shooting. A number of sailors and firemen
were striving to launch a boat. There was a struggle going on. He
could not distinguish friend from foe in the melee, but he threw
himself into it fearlessly.

"You fools!" he shouted. "You may die soon enough without killing each
other. Make way there! Ah! would you?" He caught the gleam of an
uplifted knife, and struck savagely at the face of the man who would
have used it. The butt of the revolver caught th