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 in the past few days, though all that had happened seemed a dream.

He had forgotten self. He had forgotten all that had gone before. He was one now with this crew of cutthroats, this crew of heroes. He was Lance Falcon's man.

He had been Falcon's man since the moment when Falcon had made that speech beside the mainmast. He had been afraid, weak with fear, sick with the sight of blood, bewildered by the incredible, infernal din of the fight—the thunder of the guns, the crashing of rent timbers, the cries of wounded men. But all this had passed; he was as cool now as Falcon himself. He loved every cursing, powder-blackened, blood-spattered human devil on the brig, and for Falcon himself he would fight till the deck sank under him.

The battle was in his veins. He was drunk with the stark, incalculable courage of these men who fought and cursed and died and still yelled above the tumult, "To hell with Black Lowther!"

There was blood on his sleeve and on his face, but it was not his blood. So far he had suffered not a scratch. He was grimy with powder and wet with spray and sweat. He had worked with the crew of the after-gun until (when a flying splinter had pierced Diccon Drews' throat) Falcon had shouted for him. Thenceforward he stood by the commander's side, passing his orders on to the crew of the long gun, and twice making his way forward to deliver instructions.

In place of the fear that for a while had gripped