"And these—these others!"
"The fate of men in war," said the commander. "There is no need for you to share it."
Only the rushing sound of the water for a breath's interval till she gave him the measure of her incorrigible hope. "You'll save the others, too!"
He checked his impatient gesture to demand: "You think they won't let you come—alone!" No wonder he persisted, for she was looking at him still with that excited hopefulness, though dashed now with bewilderment, her brows drawn together as though she were trying with all her might and main, in spite of dazzle and glare, to make out something dim and far and inconceivably precious—nothing less than an ultimate fate in man.
"I give you my word," he called out, "nobody shall prevent you."
"Yes, somebody will!" Julian shouted.
Twice fifteen hands were ready to make the assurance good. Four of them were laid to the oars. It was all over while you'd count half a dozen, but out of those flying seconds of half-paralyzed effort Newcomb kept the memory of a lifeboat that seemed to share the mortal agitations of her crew; a boat that for an instant—an eternity—swung under unequal oar-strokes in an oily glitter that swelled up black, polished, till it shut out the horizon stars.
As though no man had stirred, the Leyden captain was roaring: "What are you about? Shove off!" His voice thickened to incoherent cursing even before a couple of boat-hook heads crashed down on the gunwale and hauled the boat sharply back against the body of the submarine.
"Are you mad?" It wasn't lost on any one in the lifeboat that the German's free hand had found his pistol as he added: "Isn't there sense enough among you to know you're helpless? You've only the girl to thank that I don't ram you to hell." A word over his shoulder sent two of the crew down through that faint gush of light to the deck. "I'm sending for you."
"Julian!" After the guttural male voice, the high childish cry seemed to tear the quivering night in two.