A smile of supreme satisfaction overspread the Italian’s face as he saw his brutal tormentor dead at his feet.
“I am avenged!” he cried. “Now I am ready to die!”
With the blood-stained knife still in his hand he ran to the edge of the vessel and sprang into the sea.
No one tried to prevent him, and no one tried to rescue him. His life was forfeited by his act, and the mate, who was now bending over the captain, felt that his self-punishment was the speediest settlement of a troublesome complication.
The captain was raised and carried to his cabin. Restoratives were applied, but in vain. It soon became evident that the Italian’s thrust was fatal. Death had been instantaneous.
There was a frown on the captain’s face that made it repellent, yet natural, for his countenance in life had been seldom without it.
Mr. Forbush assumed command, as his position required. The captain’s body was sewed up in sailcloth and committed to the deep, the ex-mate reading the burial service.
Then the crew were summoned to meet the new captain.
“Men,” said Captain Forbush, “the captain’s death has made me your commander.”
There was an attempt at applause, but with a wave of his hand Mr. Forbush stopped it.