“You remain here, and take command during my absence. I want two revolvers for a couple of the crew, and I shall take my own gun. Please make all arrangements promptly. I am going to my cabin for five minutes, and shall start immediately afterwards.”
This was the captain speaking. His tone admitted of no contention. Boyle hurried off, and Courtenay went into his quarters.
“What do you think of it?” Christobal asked Tollemache, as the latter appeared to be sauntering after the chief officer.
“Rot!” said Tollemache.
“But what can we do? He is committing suicide.”
“One must do that occasionally. It’s rotten, but it can’t be helped.”
Christobal threw out his hands in a despairing gesture. “I tried to stop him, but I failed,” he cried.
“Courtenay is a hard man to stop,” said Tollemache, vanishing down the companion. The Spaniard was left alone on the bridge. He paced to and fro, deep in thought. He scarce dared probe his own communings. So complex were they, such a queer amalgam of noble fear and base expectation, that he could have cried aloud in his anguish. Big drops of perspiration stood on his forehead when Courtenay came to him.
“For God’s sake, don’t go,” said he hoarsely. “Do you know you are placing me on the rack?”
“Your sufferings are of your own contriving, then. Why, man, there is no reason for all this agony. I have written to Elsie, briefly explaining matters. Here is the letter. Give it to her, if I don’t return. And now, pull yourself together. I want you to cheer her. Above all things, don’t let her know I am leaving the ship. I’ll just swing myself overboard at the last moment. I can’t say good-by. I don’t think I could stand that.”