ave been the word, as all understand without hearing it
spoken.

The plan is acceptable, and accepted. There seems no fairer for
obtaining the fiat of Fate on this dread question.

The shells--_unios_--lie thickly strewn over the ground. There are
thousands, all of the same shape and size. By the "feel" it would be
impossible to tell one from another. Nor yet by their colour, since all
are snow-white.

Twelve of them are taken up, and put into the tin pannikin--a quart
measure--one being marked with a spot of red--by blood drawn from
Striker's own arm, which he has purposely punctured. Soon absorbed by
the porous substance of the shell, it cannot be detected by the touch.

The preliminaries completed, all gather around, ready to draw. They but
wait for him who is on watch beside the spread tarpauling, and who must
take his chances with the rest in this lottery of life and death. It is
the Dutchman who is above. They have already hailed, and commanded him
to come down, proclaiming their purpose.

But he neither obeys them, nor gives back response. He does not even
look in their direction. They can see him by the signal-staff, standing
erect, with face turned towards the sea, and one hand over his eyes
shading them from the sun. He appears to be regarding some object in
the offing.

Presently he lowers the spread palm, and raises a telescope with which
he is provided.

They stand watching him, speechless, and with bated breath, their solemn
purpose for the time forgotten. In the gleam of that glass they have a
fancy there may be life, as there is light.

The silence continues till 'tis seen going down. Then they hear words,
which send the blood in quick current through their veins, bringing hope
back into their hearts. They are:

"_Sail in sight_!"

CHAPTER SEVENTY FIVE.

BY THE SIGNAL-STAFF.

"Sail in sight!"

Three little words, but full of big meaning, of carrying the question of
life or death.

To the ears of that starving crew sweet as music, despite the harsh
Teutonic pronunciation of him who gave them utterance.

Down drops the pannikin, spilling out the shells; which they have hopes
may be no more needed.

At the shout from above, all have faced towards the sea, and stand
scanning its surface. But with gaze unrewarded. The white flecks seen
afar are only the wings of gulls.

"Where away?" shouts one, interrogating him on the hill.

"Sou'-westart."

South-westward they