"Lacking the mizzen she labours by the wind, which hath veered¹ sadly during the night," quoth Captain Jordan in a sleepy voice, as with his host he came upon deck betimes.  
"I like it little," the master replied.
 
"It would be well to lay a new course and sail on a new voyage. There is small gain to be got from these fisheries. A southern voyage, now, promises returns worth the labour."
 
To this Captain Candle made no reply. He studied the sore damage done to the ship, upon which already the carpenter was at work.
 
"With a breadth of canvas and hoops² to batten the edges fast, and over all a coating of tar³, a man might make her as tight and dry as you please," said the Old One. He smiled when he spoke⁴ and his manner galled⁵ his host.
 
"It was in my own mind," Captain Candle replied, with an angry lift of his head. There are few things more grievously harassing⁶ than the importunity⁷ and easy assurance of a guest of whom there is no riddance. It puts a man where he is peculiarly helpless to defend himself, and already Captain Candle's patience had ebbed⁹ far. "Bid the boatswain overhaul¹⁰ his canvas, mate, and the carpenter prepare such material as be needful. Aye, and bid the 'liar⁸' stand ready to go over the side. 'Twill cool his hot pride, of which it seems he hath full measure."
 
"Yea, yea!"
 
As the master paced the deck, back and forth¹¹ and back and forth, the Old One walked at his side—for he was a shrewd schemer and had calculated his part well—until the master's gorge¹² rose. "I must return to the cabin," he said at last, "and overhaul my journal."
 
"I will bear you company."
 
"No, no!"
 
The Old One smiled as if in deprecation; but as the master turned away, the smile broadened to a grin.
 
Boatswain Marsham and the one-eyed carpenter who wore a beard like a goat's were on their way to the forehold. The cook and his mate were far down in the cookroom. Ten men in the watch below were sound asleep—but Martin Barwick, the eleventh man in the watch, was on deck, and of the eleven rescued men not one was below. With Captain Candle safe in his cabin and busied over his journal, there were left from the company of the Rose of Devon eight men and the mate, and one man of the eight was at the helm. These the Old One counted as he took a turn on the quarter-deck.
 
The Old One and his men were refreshed by a night of sleep and restored by good food. To all appearances, without care or thought to trouble them, they ruffled¹³ about the deck. One was standing¹⁴ just behind the mate; two were straying toward the steerage.
 
"Thy boatswain is a brave lad," the Old One said to the mate, and stepping in front of him, he spread his legs and folded his arms.
 
The mate nodded. He had less liking¹⁵ for their guest, if it were possible, than the captain.
 
"A brave lad," the Old One repeated. "I can use him."
 
"You?"
 
"Yea, I."
 
The mate drew back a step, as a man does when another puts his face too near. He was on the point of speaking; but before his lips had phrased a word the Old One raised his hand and the man behind the mate drove six inches of blue steel into the mate's back, between his ribs¹⁷ and through his heart.
 
He died in the Old One's arms, for the Old One caught him before he fell, and held him thus.
 
"Well done," the Old One said to his man.
 
"Not so well as one could wish," the man replied, wiping his knife on the mate's coat. "He perished quietly enough, but the knife bit into a rib¹⁶ and the feeling of a sharp knife dragging upon bone sets my teeth on edge."
 
The Old One laughed. "Thy stomach is exceeding queasy," he said. "Come, let us heave him over the side."
 
All this, remember, had happened quickly and very quietly. There were the three men standing by the quarter-deck ladder—the Old One and his man and the mate—and by all appearances the Old One merely put out his hands in a friendly manner to the other, for the knife thrust was hidden by a cloak. But now the mate's head fell forward in a queer, lackadaisical¹⁹ way and four of the Old One's men, perceiving what they looked for, slipped past him through the door to the steerage room, where they clapped down the hatch to the main deck. One stood on the hatch; two stood by the door of the great cabin; and the fourth, stepping up to the man at the helm, flashed a knife from his sleeve and cut the fellow down.
 
It was a deft²⁰ blow, but not so sure as the thrust that had killed the mate. The helmsman dropped the whipstaff and, falling, gave forth a yell and struck at his assailant, who again let drive at him with the knife and finished the work, so that the fellow lay with bloody²¹ froth at his lips and with fingers that twitched²² a little and then were still.
 
The man who had killed him took the whipstaff and called softly, "Holla, master! We hold the helm!" then from his place he heard a sailor cry out, "The mate is falling! Lend him aid!"
 
Then the Old One's voice, rising to a yell, called, "Stand back! Stand off! Now, my hearts!"
 
There came a quick tempest of voices, a shrill²³ cry, the pounding of many feet, then a splash, then a cry wilder and more shrill than any before, "Nay²⁴, I yield—quarter! Quarter, I say! Mercy! God's mercy, I beg of you! Help—O God!"
 
There was at the same time a rumble²⁵ of hoarse²⁶ voices and a sound of great struggling, then a shriek²⁷ and a second splash.
 
The man at the helm kicked the dead helmsman to one side and listened. In the great cabin, behind the bulkhead at his back, he heard a sudden stir. As between the mainmast and the forecastle the yells rose louder, the great cabin door burst open and out rushed Captain Francis Candle in a rich waist with broad cuffs²⁸ at his wrists, his hair new oiled with jessamine butter, and gallant²⁹ bows at his knees, for he was a fine gentleman who had first gone to sea as a lieutenant³⁰ in the King's service. As he rushed out the door the man lying in wait on the left struck a fierce blow to stab him, but the knife point broke on a steel plate which it seemed Captain Candle wore concealed³¹ to foil just such dastardly work.
 
Thereupon, turning like a flash, Captain Candle spitted the scoundrel with his sword. But the man lying in wait on the right of the door saw his fellow's blow fail and perceived the reason, and leaping on the captain from behind, he seized his oiled hair with one hand and hauled back his head, and reaching forward with the other hand, drove a knife into the captain's bare throat.
 
Dark blood from a severed³² vein³³ streamed out over Captain Candle's collar and his gay waist. He coughed and his eyes grew dull. He let go his sword, which remained stuck through the body of the man who had first struck at him, clapped his hand to his neck, and went down in a heap.
 
The yells on deck had ceased and the man who had killed Francis Candle, after glancing into the great cabin where the captain's cloak lay spread over the chair from which he rose to step out of his door and die,—where the captain's pen lay across the pages of the open journal and a bottle of the captain's wine, which he had that morning shared with his guest, Captain Thomas Jordan, stood beside the unstoppered bottle of ink,—walked forth upon the deck and nodded to the Old One, who stood with his hand on the after swivel gun.
 
There were a few splotches of blood on the deck and three men of the Rose of Devon's crew lay huddled³⁴ in a heap; there were left standing three other men of the Rose of Devon, and sick enough they looked; Martin Barwick was stationed by the ladder to the forecastle, where he stood like a pigeon cock with his head haughtily³⁵ in the air and his chest thrust out; and the little round apple of a man, Harry³⁶ Malcolm, who had broken in upon Martin the night before, bearing now a new and bloody gash³⁷ across his forehead, was prowling among the guns and tapping the breech rings with a knowing air.
 
The Old One from the quarter-deck looked down at the new comer.
 
"Rab took the steel," the fellow said.
 
"Rab!" the Old One cried. "Not Rab, you say?"
 
"Yea, he struck first but the master wore an iron shirt which turned the point and he was then at him with his sword."
 
"We have lost nine good men by this devil-begotten storm, but of them all Rab is the one I am most loath³⁸ to see go to the sharks." The Old One paced the deck a while and the others talked in undertones. "Yea, Martin," he called at last, "nine good men. But we have got us a ship and I have great hopes of our boatswain, who m............