light-headed, his limbs were stiff and sore, he was cold. He swung his bare arms—his only garment was his breeches—to warm himself, and discovered suddenly that he was weak and very tired. Without a glance at the four sleeping men, he walked a few steps to the top of the sand ridge in order to get a view of his surroundings.
Fifty yards away on the beach he saw Falcon, coatless and hatless, his white shirt hanging in nibbons, gazing out over the ocean.
Lachlan stood for some moments watching him. Presently Falcon turned, saw Lachlan standing on the dune, and beckoned him; and Lachlan walked slowly down the slope of the dune and across the beach. As he approached, he saw that Falcon was smiling; and this smile filled him with a dull surprise, a vague, ill-defined horror.
"Give you good morning, Mr. McDonald," Falcon said briskly as Lachlan drew near. "I have been mourning at the grave of the Good Fortune, and now my faithful first mate has come to shed a few tears on her watery bier."
It was the tone, the sneer on his lips, that made a hard, loathsome jest of the words. Yonder beyond the breakers was a vast grave, a grave where more than forty men were sleeping; and standing beside this grave, this man, their captain, jested and smiled.
Lachlan stepped back a pace, his face suddenly white; but Falcon continued calmly:
"She was a staunch brig, but too small and not
