I looked at my watch again and again—why, surely it must have stopped since it could not be only five meager minutes since last I turned my eyes on its face; but holding it to my ear I could hear its ticking still.
Midnight!
The wild alarum outside kept up with a terrible monotony—it was like the devil’s tattoo, sounding our fate in ominous drum beats.
How long could steel and wood stand such a ceaseless, terrific hammering? Surely the little vessel must be slowly but positively going to pieces. The agony of that night passes comprehension—if I were to sit down and write volumes in the endeavor to tell all we suffered and felt, the actual realization must beggar description.
One bright gleam came to me in the midst of all this horrid darkness; strange how human emotions will rise to the front in spite of deadly peril.
I saw Carmencita leave her mistress and make her way into the stateroom.
When she reappeared she carried the little satchel which I had rescued with Hildegarde.
Though some distance away, trying to talk with Robbins and Cummings, I could not withstand the fascination of watching what she did.
For I had a certain interest in that bag.
First the woman showed—she took out a little pouch made of soft chamois skin—I knew it of old to contain her jewelry, numerous valuable diamonds, and rubies, in rings or some such setting—I had given them to her when we were traveling in Europe, after fortune had poured her favors in my lap.