“Don’t speak like that,” she said quickly.  “We are all of us adventurers in this world, and I more than you.  We have just to consider ourselves, not what we have or have not.”

“So be it, Miss Clifford.  Then I have nothing more to say; now it is for you to answer.”

Just then the sound of the piano and the fiddle in the saloon ceased.  One of the waltzes was over, and some of the dancers came upon deck to flirt or to cool themselves.  One pair, engaged very obviously in the former occupation, stationed themselves so near to Robert and Benita that further conversation between them was impossible, and there proceeded to interchange the remarks common to such occasions.

For a good ten minutes did they stand thus, carrying on a mock quarrel as to a dance of which one of them was supposed to have been defrauded, until Robert Seymour, generally a very philosophical person, could have slain those innocent lovers.  He felt, he knew not why, that his chances were slipping away from him; that sensation of something bad about to happen, of which Benita had spoken, spread from her to him.  The suspense grew exasperating, terrible even, nor could it be ended.  To ask her to come elsewhere was under the circumstances not feasible, especially as he would also have been obliged to request the other pair to make way for them, and all this time, with a sinking of the heart, he felt that probably Benita was beating down any tenderness which she might feel towards him; that when her long-delayed answer did come the chances were it would be “No.”

The piano began to play again in the saloon, and the young people, still squabbling archly, at length prepared to depart.  Suddenly there was a stir upon the bridge, and against the tender sky Robert saw a man dash forward.  Next instant the engine-room bell rang fiercely.  He knew the signal—­it was “Stop,” followed at once by other ringings that meant “Full speed astern.”

“I wonder what is up?” said the young man to the young woman.

Before the words had left his lips they knew.  There was a sensation as though all the hull of the great ship had come to a complete standstill, while the top part of her continued to travel forward; followed by another sensation still more terrible and sickening in its nature—­that of slipping over something, helplessly, heavily, as a man slips upon ice or a polished floor.  Spars cracked, ropes flew in two with a noise as of pistol shots.  Heavy objects rushed about the deck, travelling forwards all of them.  Benita was hurled from her chair against Robert so that the two of them rolled into the scuppers.  He was unhurt and picked himself up, but she lay still, and he saw that something had struck her upon the head, for blood was running down her cheek.  He lifted her, and, filled with black horror and despair—­for he thought her gone—­pressed his hand upon her heart.  Thank God! it began to beat again—­she still lived.