James came on deck before they were within a hundred miles of the land. He sat about in the cold of the evening wrapped up in rugs, and the girl waited upon him, brought him anything he wished. In the long hours of daylight—for it was light enough to read until midnight—they sat near the taffrail. The captain said nothing; he would not notice. He liked the man who had saved his ship. The girl was sympathetic, and James often held her hand. She did not attempt to withdraw it.
But he would not tell her he cared for her. That was absurd. He had already sacrificed his life. He was as good as dead. Yet he wondered at the passion that had brought him into such desperate trouble and had caused so much ruin and death. He pondered silently, and now often watched the girl furtively.
Into the beautiful harbor, the great fiord of Port Stanley, they came, the schooner making fairly good way in spite of her crippled condition. Her arrival was greeted with joyous acclaim by the land sharks, who smelled the wound and saw the damage. They would make a good haul. Ships didn't come often—but when they did, well, they paid.
The governor was notified of the arrival. He was told everything but the relation of the passengers to the ships to which they originally belonged. The master was generous; and, besides, it was not America they were now in. It was an outlying foreign colony at the edge of the world, a place where one seldom went or heard from. They might go ashore if they wished. The seaman asked to remain aboard. He was allowed to do so, and consequently did not go ashore and talk too much.
James passed that last night in high spirits. He was going out on his last voyage. He was going to die, going to leave the woman who he knew loved him, who had been so sympathetic, so lovable. They were on deck a long time that evening, and the captain, being wise and old enough to understand, did not molest them.
"Good night," she said finally. "Good night. I'll see you to-morrow before we go ashore. We can take the ship across to the straits, and meet the regular liner as she comes through from Punta Arenas. We'll be home again in a few weeks."
"Good-by," he said simply. That was all. She went below.
Shortly after four bells—two o'clock in the morning—James, with set face and grim resolution, stole on deck. He gazed up at the Southern Cross for a few moments, at the beautiful constellation that he would see for the last time; then at the grim, barren hills back of the settlement.
It was a farewell look, his farewell to things in this world. He was determined not to be disgraced. He would die like a man, as he could no longer live like one.
Then he dropped softly over the side, and sank down—down into the quiet waters of Stanley Harbor.