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 an oath—a one-eyed, earringed seaman, teeth bared in a snarling grin.

"By the Pit!" the man growled, "Black Lowther knows his business, too. Here's Hell's soup now!"

A hand fell on the seaman's shoulder and sent him spinning. It was Falcon. "Come aft, sir!" he snapped at Lachlan, and strode towards the stern, shouting orders as he went. Lachlan followed, saw Falcon snatch the wheel from the helmsman, stood by with thumping heart and parted lips as the tall man before him, oblivious of his presence, dealt with the peril that had burst upon him out of the fog.

He crowded sail on the brig until she was carrying every inch of canvas. He sent men aloft with buckets to wet the sails so that they would hold the wind. Meanwhile he prepared for battle. Lachlan saw that men were busy at the broadside guns, that ammunition was being brought from the magazine, that cutlasses, hangars, and pikes were stacked upon the deck.

Then, after half an hour of feverish activity, of ceaseless bellowing of orders, a strange stillness and silence fell. Lachlan knew that for the present all that could be done had been done, that the issue rested with fate.

Falcon turned to him then with a smile as bland as that of a courtier in a ballroom.

"You have most damnably good luck, Mr. McDonald," he said slowly. The smile became a laugh.