"Don't give up!" he repeated.
A wan smile came and went. "I can't help it," she whispered.
Skipper Libe and his men withdrew. It was now near midnight. The fog was lifting. Stars twinkled in patches of black sky. Low towards the seaward horizon the moon was breaking through the clouds.
Suddenly the cook sat bolt upright. "Skipper," he demanded, "where is we?"
"On the Devil's Teeth."
"An' what rock's this?"
"This?"
"Ay—this!"
"I'd not be s'prised," the skipper answered, "if 'tis what they calls the Cocked Hat."