I had quite forgotten the existence of Leach and Johnson, when suddenly, like a thunderclap, "Boat ho!" came down the open companion-way.

It was Smoke's unmistakable voice, crying from the masthead.

I shot a glance at the woman, but she was leaning back in the arm-chair, her eyes closed, unutterably tired.

I doubted that she had heard, and I resolved to prevent her seeing the brutality I knew would follow the capture of the deserters.

She was tired.