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 out four masts, and finally her rig—a four-mast barque, carry skysails on the main and mizzen masts. Otto and Fritz recognized in her lines a German build, and the others were obliged on principle to differ. Then a perfect hush descended on the world, broken only by the faint crisp lapping of water and the sighing of canvas.

The brown clouds had faded and were now stretched across the horizon like patches of ash over the glowing end of a cigar. Twilight was descending swiftly, and as the last hint of gold dissolved in the west the unknown ship, a towering black silhouette, came regally abeam of the Clytemnestra, not more than three or four shiplengths away. At long intervals she inclined, like a queen acknowledging homage, her mastheads tracing imaginary curves against the vault. The horizon showed dully wine-coloured in the spaces between her sails. Little men were visible on deck. Faint strains of music could be heard across the water—the music of an accordion.

Suddenly Fritz climbed a few steps into the rigging and broke the unearthly silence with a booming inquiry in German, his hands held to his face as a megaphone.

Ears strained to catch the reply. A thrill shot through Paul and a lump came to his throat.

Deliberately, Fritz boomed out another question, not in the voice full of humps and hollows that he employed in talking, nor the jumbled falsetto with which he marked time when pulling at the head of the braces. It was an even tone that stretched out like a wire. And after tense seconds of waiting a similar voice, like a ghostly echo, made the return journey with answers and reciprocal inquiries. Paul asked himself how Fritz dared stand forth in the presence of his mates and give such a personal exhibition; there was something gloriously immodest in the physical outpouring of sound. Paul felt that the Clytemnestra must be blushing for the prosaic nature of the information conveyed.