And as they fell back they heard prisoned voices saying: "Don't leave us! Don't desert us! Don't, don't do it!" And one poor fellow said: "I am Henry Worley, striker of the Amaranth! My mother lives in St.
Louis.

Tell her a lie for a poor devil's sake, please.

Say I was killed in an instant and never knew what hurt me--though God knows I've neither scratch nor bruise this moment! It's hard to burn up in a coop like this with the whole wide world so near.

Good-bye boys--we've all got to come to it at last, anyway!" The Boreas stood away out of danger, and the ruined steamer went drifting down the stream an island of wreathing and climbing flame that vomited clouds of smoke from time to time, and glared more fiercely and sent its luminous tongues higher and higher after each emission.

A shriek at intervals told of a captive that had met his doom.