"What is it?" she exclaimed, weakly. "What has happened? Where is father?"
"Madam," said Denman, gently, "you have been picked up from a steam yacht which exploded her boilers. Are you in pain? What can I do for you?"
"I don't know. Yes, I am in pain. My face."
"Wait, and I will get you what I can from the medicine-chest."
Denman explored the surgeon's quarters, and returned with bandages and a mixture of linseed oil and lime water. He gently laved and bound the poor woman's face, and then led her to the captain's berth.
"Go in," he said. "Take off your wet clothes, and put on his pajamas. Here they are"—he produced them from a locker—"and then turn in. I will be here, and will take care of you."
He departed, and when he saw the wet garments flung out, he gathered them and hung them up to dry. It was all he could do, except to look through the surgeon's quarters for stimulants, which he found. He poured out a strong dose of brandy, which he gave to the woman, and had the satisfaction of seeing her sink into profound slumber; then, returning to the wardroom, he found Jenkins waiting for him.
"I am after a sextant, Mr. Denman," he said, "an almanac—a nautical almanac. Forsythe wants them."
"You must find them yourself, then," answered Denman. "Neither under parole nor confinement will I aid you in any way unless you surrender."
"Nonsense," said Jenkins, impatiently, as he stepped past Denman, and approached a bookcase. "When we're through with the boat you can have her."