“I thought I heard voices just now,” shouted Mallet.
“Natives been out fishing,” replied Corwell.
As the canoe shot out through the mouth of the river into the open bay the rain ceased as suddenly as it began, and the Ceres loomed up right ahead.
“Don't hail them, Mallet. Let us go aboard quietly.”
They clambered up the side, the two natives following, and, wet and dripping, entered the cabin.
Corwell stepped to the swinging lamp, which burnt dimly, and pricked up the wick. His wife seemed to be sound asleep on the cushioned transom locker.
“Mary,” he cried, “wake up, dearest. We—— ... Oh my God,Mallet!”
He sprang to her side, and kneeling beside the still figure, placed his hand on the blood-stained bosom.
“Dead! Dead! Murdered!” He rose to his feet, and stared wildly at Mallet, swayed to and fro, and then fell heavily forward.
As the two natives stood at the cabin door, gazing in wondering horror at the scene, they heard a splash. Nakoda had jumped overboard and was swimming ashore.