In the saloon, Elsie had shielded her face in her hands, to hide the

tears which the entreaty of the hymn had brought to her eyes. Some one

whispered to her: "Won't you sing something, Miss Maxwell?"

It was the American. He judged that the sweet voice which

unconsciously led the singing of the hymn must be skilled in other

music.

She looked up at him, her eyes shining.

"Sing! Do you think it possible?" she asked.

"Yes. You can do a brave thing, I guess, and that would be brave."

"I will try," she said, and she walked to the piano which was screwed

athwart the deck in front of the polished mahogany sheath of the steel

mainmast. It was in her mind to play some lively excerpts from the

light operas then in vogue, but the secret influences of the hour were

stronger than her studied intent, and, when her fingers touched the

keys, they wandered, almost without volition, into the subtle harmonies

of Gounod's "Ave Maria." She played the air first; then, gaining

confidence, she sang the words, using a Spanish version which had

caught her fancy. It was good to see the flashing eyes and impassioned

gestures of the Chilean stewards when they found that she was singing

in their own language. These men, owing to their acquaintance with the

sea and knowledge of the coast, were now in a state of panic; they

would have burst the bonds of discipline on the least pretext. So, as

it chanced, the voice of the English señorita reached them as the

message of an angel, and the spell she cast over them did not lose its

potency during some hours of dangerous toil. Here, again, was found

one of the comparatively trivial incidents which contributed materially

to the working out of a strange drama, because anything in the nature

of a mutinous orgy breaking out in the first part of that

soul-destroying night must have instantly converted the ship into a

blood-bespattered Inferno.

Excited applause rewarded the song. Fired by example, the dapper

French Count approached the piano and asked Elsie if she could play

Beranger's "Roi d'Yvetot." She repressed a smile at his choice, but

the chance that presented itself of initiating a concert on the spur of

the moment was too good to be lost, so M. de Poincilit, in a nice light

tenor, told how Il était un roi d'Yvetot

Pen connu dans l'histoire,

Se levant tard, se couchant tôt,

Dormant fort bien sans gloire.

The Frenchman took the merry monarch seriously, but the lilting melody

pleased everybody except "Mr. Wood." The "Oh, Oh's" and "Ah, Ah's" of

the chorus apparently stirred him to speech. He strolled from a corner

of the saloon to the side of Gray, the American engineer, and said,

with a contemptuous nod towards the singer: "What rot!"




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