esort to any weapons. You believe it will serve
the possibility of escape if I permit this monster to imagine that I
have some interest in him?"

"To do so might delay the explosion," I replied gravely, "and just now
any delay is welcome. I know how such an effort will try you, but the
end may be well worth the sacrifice. I doubt if even Estada will
resort to force on board; indeed force will be the very last card he
will care to play in your case. He is a brute, and capable of any
crime, yet at heart a coward. There is reason why he will fear to
assault you. You are English and all the practical seamen on board are
from northern Europe--English and Scandinavian. These men are not
pirates from choice--they are prisoners who have taken on to save
their own lives. With his bullies and cut-throats amidships he can
compel them to work, but he dare not go too far. Once these fellows
unite in mutiny they could take the ship. An assault on you would be
dangerous."

"It is these men you count on?"

"Yes; but for me to gain their confidence and leadership will require
time. I must reach them all secretly and alone. Not more than half are
in my watch, and Watkins must approach the others. A plan for
concerted action will have to be arranged, and every precaution taken.
The slightest slip would mean failure, and merciless punishment. Even
if I succeed in gathering together all these better elements on board,
we shall yet be outnumbered two to one, perhaps more, and our only
hope rests in surprise. At best the situation is absolutely
desperate--but I see no other solution."

"And my service is deceit--the acting of a part to blind the eyes of
Estada?"

"I sincerely believe your greater chance of security lies in this
course. The fellow is a supreme egotist; opposition will anger him,
while flattery will make him subservient. You have the wit and
discretion to hold him within certain limits. It is a dangerous game,
I admit, and a disagreeable one, but the case requires desperate
remedies."

She lifted her eyes, searching my face through the dim light.

"Geoffry Carlyle," she said, at last, a tremor in the low voice,
"there is no sacrifice I would not make to preserve my honor. I hate
this man; I dread his touch; I shrink from contact with him, as I
would from a snake, but I am not going to refuse to do my part. If you
say this is right, and justified, I will consent."

"I believe it is."

"And you will not lose faith in