John Frewen, South Sea Whaler. Becke Louis

out myriad stars upon the bosom of a softly heaving sea, and only the never-ceasing murmur of the surf as it beat against the coral barrier, or the cry of some wandering sea-bird, disturbed the warm silence of the tropic night.

      Leaving the boat to the care of their native friends at eight o’clock, Frewen and his comrade laid down amidships and were soon fast asleep, for the day had been a tiring one, and they needed more rest to recover from the effects of the three days they had spent on the open sea.

      Soon after daylight they were awakened by the steersman, who pointed out a large, lofty-sparred vessel. She was about five miles away, and being head on, Frewen was uncertain as to her rig, till an hour later, when he saw that she was a full-rigged ship.

      “Not the Casilda” he said to his comrade, and neither of them gave the strange vessel any further thought, especially as the wind had now died away, and, the sail being lowered, the crew bent to the oars under an already hot and blazing sun.

      Shortly before noon, the boat rounded a low headland and entered a lovely little bay, embowered in thick groves of coco-palms and breadfruit trees. The new house which Raymond had built was not visible from the bay, but there were some thirty or forty native houses clustered under the shade of the trees, a few yards up from the beach, on which they noticed a ship’s longboat was lying.

      The moment Frewen’s boat was seen, a strange clamour arose, and a number of natives, armed with muskets and long knives, rushed out of their houses, and took cover behind the rocks and trees, evidently with the intention of resisting his landing, and Frewen and Cheyne heard loud cries of “Lèmonte! Lèmonte!”

      “Back water!” cried Cheyne in his mother tongue to the crew; then he turned to Frewen: “There is something wrong on shore. ‘Lèmonte’ is my brother-in-law’s name, and they are calling for him.” Then he stood up and shouted out—

      “Friends, do you not know me? I am Randall. Where is my sister and her husband?”

      A loud cry of astonishment burst from the natives, many of whom, throwing down their arms, sprang into the water, and clambering into the boat greeted the young man most affectionately; and then one of them, commanding silence, began talking rapidly to him.

      “We must get ashore quickly,” said Cheyne to Randall. “My brother-in-law has a number of dead and dying people in his house. There has been a mutiny on board that ship—but come on, he’ll tell us all about it.”

      In another minute the boat was on the beach, and as Frewen and Cheyne jumped ont they were met by a handsome, dark-faced man about forty years of age, who grasped Cheyne’s hands warmly.

      “I never expected to see you, Randall,” he said quietly, “but I thank God that you have come, and at such a time, too. Where is your ship?”

      “Three hundred miles away. But we will tell you our story another time. How is Marie?”

      “Well. She already hears the people shouting your name. Come to the house.” Then he turned to Frewen and held out his hand. “My name is Raymond, and you are welcome to Samatau.”

      “And mine is Frewen. I hope you will accept any assistance I can give.”

      “Gladly. But I will tell you the whole story presently. I have two men dying in my house, three others wounded, and two dead.”

      He led the way along a shady, winding path to the house, on the wide verandah of which were seated a number of natives of both sexes, who made way for them to pass with low murmurs of “Talofa, aliia,” {*} to the two strangers. Then in another moment Marie Raymond stepped softly out from the sitting-room, and threw her arms round her brother’s neck.

      * “Greeting, gentlemen.”

      “Thank God you are here, Randall,” she said, leading the way into another room. “Tom will tell you of what has happened. I will return as soon as I can.”

      “How is Captain Marston?” asked Raymond, as she stood for a moment with her hand on the handle of the door.

      “Still unconscious. Mrs. Marston is with him.” She paused, and then turned her dark and beautiful tear-dimmed eyes to Frewen: “Tom, perhaps this gentleman might be able to do something. Will he come in and see?”

      Raymond drew him aside. “Go in and see the poor fellow. He can’t last long—his skull is fractured.”

      Frewen followed Mrs. Raymond into the large room, and saw lying on her own bed the figure of a man whose features were of the pallor of death. His head was bound up, and kneeling by his side, with her eyes bent upon his closed lids, was a woman, or rather a girl of twenty-two or twenty-three years of age. As, at the sound of footsteps, she raised her pale, agonised face, something like a gleam of hope came into it.

      “Are you a doctor?” she asked in a trembling whisper.

      The seaman shook his head respectfully. “No, madam; I would I were.”

      He leant over the bed, and looked at the still, quiet face of the man, whom he could see was in the prime of life, and whose regular, clear-cut features showed both refinement and strength of character.

      “He still breathes,” whispered the poor wife.

      “Yes, so I see,” said Frewen, as he rose. Then he asked Mrs. Raymond a few questions as to the nature of the wound, and learned that in addition to a fractured skull a pistol bullet had entered at the back of the neck.

      “There is no hope, you think. I can see that by your face,” said Mrs. Marston, suppressing a sob.

      “I cannot tell, madam. But I do think that his condition is very, very serious.”

      She bent her head, and then sank on her knees again beside the bed, but suddenly she rose again, and placed her hand on Frewen’s sleeve.

      “I know that my husband must die, no human aid can save him. But will you, sir, go and see poor Mr. Villari. Mr. Raymond has hopes for him at least. And he fought very bravely for my husband.”

      Villari was the first mate of the ship, and was lying in another room, together with three wounded seamen. He was a small, wiry Italian, and when Frewen entered with Raymond and Mrs. Raymond, he waved his right hand politely to them, and a smile lit up his swarthy features. He had two bullet wounds, one a clean hole through the right shoulder, the other in the thigh. He had lost a great deal of blood, but none of his high courage, though Raymond at first thought he could not live.

      “I am not going to die,” he said. “Per Bacco, no.”

      Frewen spoke encouragingly to him and then turned his attention to the seamen, all of whom were Englishmen. None of them were severely wounded, and all that could be done for them had been done by Raymond and their own unwounded shipmates, of whom there were four.

      “Now I shall tell you the story,” said Raymond to Frewen and Cheyne, as he led the way to the verandah, on which a table with refreshments had been placed. “But, first of all, do you see that ship out there? Well, that is the Esmeralda. She is now in the possession of the mutineers, and has on board forty-five thousand dollars. You see that she is becalmed?”

      “And likely to continue so for another three or four days, if I am any judge of the weather in this part of the Pacific,” said Frewen, “I agree with you. And now, before I begin to tell you the story of the mutiny, I want to know if you two will help me to recapture her? You are seamen, and—”

      Both men sprang to their feet.

      “Yes, we will!”

      “Ah! I thought you would not refuse. Now wait a moment,” and calling to a young native who was near, he bade him go to the chief of Samatau and ask him to come to the house as quickly as possible.

      “Malië, the chief of Samatau, will help us,” he said to Frewen; “he has two hundred of the best fighting men in Samoa, and I shall ask him to pick out fifty. But we want a nautical leader—some one to take charge of the ship after we get possession of her.”

      “Now here is the story of the mutiny, told to me by poor Mrs. Marston.”

      CHAPTER