forgotten in his post at the masthead, but never taking his eyes from his Sultana.

Like a gorilla he slipped down the backstay with one hand; with the other hand he reached downward with a swift, sure clutch, and as Rufe’s wrist flexed to cast his javelin Milo’s hand gripped him by the neck from behind and swung him bodily off his feet, while the wide-flung cutlas flashed through the air and plunged with a hiss over the side.

“I thank thee again, Milo,” said Dolores, slipping her dagger into the sheath and looking on at Rufe’s struggles with the unconcern of one far apart from the actual conflict. “I wished to take him alive; yet had almost been forced to cut too deeply. Bring the villain to me. And, Caliban, get more flares, lanterns, lights, and make us a theater of justice here.”