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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 concealed 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 severed vein 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 huddled in a heap; there were left standing three other men of the Rose of Devon, and sick enough they looked; Martin