CHAPTER ELEVEN.
"DAVID PREVAILED" (I.Sam.

17:50) Be glad if ye know the accursed thing And know it accurst, for the Gift is yours Of Sight where the prophets of blindness sing By the brink of death.

And the Gift endures; Ye shall see the last of the sharpened lies That rivet privilege's gripe.
Be still, then, ye with the opened eyes, Come away from the thing till the time is ripe.
Be glad that ye loathe the accursed thing, It is given to you to foreknow the end.
But they who the unwise challenge fling Shall startle foe at the risk of friend As yet unready to endure-- And can ye fend Goliath's swipe?
The slowly grinding mills are sure, Let terror alone till the time is ripe.
Be glad when the shout for the spoils, and the glee, The hoofs and the wheels of the prophets of wrong, Out thunder the warning of what shall be; Be still, for the tumult is not for long.
The Finger that wrote, from a polished wall As surely the closed account shall wipe; The accursed thing ye feared shall fall To a boy with a sling when the time is ripe.
If the dhow had been seaworthy; if the crew had understood the rigging and the long unwieldy spar; if we had had any chart, or had known anything whatever of the coast; if nobody had been afraid; and, above all, if that incessant din of surf pounding on rocks not far away to starboard had not threatened disaster even greater than the Germans in the steam launch, our problem might have been simple enough.
But every one was afraid, including me who held the tiller (and the lives of all the party) in my right hand.

Lady Saffren Waldon disguised fear under an acid temper and some villainously bad advice.
"Steer toward them!" she kept shouting in my ear.

"Steer toward them! Ram them! Sink them!" Coutlass, on my other hand, made feverish haste with his love-affair, fearful lest discovery by the Germans should postpone forever the assuaging of his hungry heart's desire.
"Steer toward shore!" he urged me.