About three hours after sunset, the moon had asserted itself. Very high in air it shone, right overhead almost, and although but half a moon, was exceedingly bright and silver-like. But half-moons give the stars a chance, and to-night, though the haze lay houses high all along the horizon, the sky above was darkly blue, and so clear that you could mark the changing radiance of colour of many of the stars that sparkled as dew-drops do in the sun’s rays.
I noted all this with satisfaction, I cannot say with pleasure. There was that unbanishable feeling of heaviness at my heart, which I have mentioned. It was getting late, however, so I went below to our cosy saloon, and was soon chatting cheerfully with our little mother, Mrs Coates. As I was turning to come down the companion, I had heard Peter sing out to Jill, “Oh, look at that great grampus!” And both had gone to see it.
We expected the captain down every minute to play, as was his wont, and rather wondered he did not come.
Suddenly on deck was heard the sound of footsteps hurrying aft, and at the same moment that awful shout—who that has ever heard it is likely to forget it till his dying day—?
“Man overboard!”
Mrs Coates started to her feet, clutching at the arm of the chair to prevent herself from falling.
With a sudden and terrible fear at my heart I went rushing up the ladder.
Peter was there—alone.
“Where is Jill?” I gasped.
“It is he,” was all he could answer.