Commins grew white to the lips, and his gloved fingers, resting on the bridge rail, trembled, but recovering himself, he said: “I will bring her here, and you shall receive the orders from her own lips,” then left the bridge.
Captain Pardoe flung himself round, took a hasty turn up and down the cramped bridge, then, with a stern and angry visage, faced Miss Anstrade.
She came swiftly, with a rustling of skirts, and a faint perfume that seemed strangely out of place, as much out of place as would be the inhuman order from her woman’s lips to destroy a helpless ship. Her large eyes glared with a feverish light, her breast heaved, and her hands were clutched in a sort of hysterical passion.
“Captain Pardoe,” she cried, in a thin, unnatural voice, “why have you let that ship escape?”
“Because, madam, I had not men enough to work her, and she would never have reached Rio.”
“No; but she can reach the bottom.”
“Good God!” he muttered, his face turning an ashen grey, “Miss Laura, you cannot mean that?”
“Yes; but I do!” she said, with a gasp.
“Then,” he said fiercely, “you must put someone else in command.”
“Oh, no, no!” she cried, “I never—”