"The barometer resists your plea," he said. "I fear there will be a
good many empty saddles in the saloon at dinner."

The lady smiled weakly. It was a feeble joke at the best. "You think we
are in for a sort of marine steeple-chase?" she asked.

"Well, thank Heaven, I had a good lunch," sniggered a rosy-faced
subaltern, and a ripple of laughter greeted his enthusiasm.

Iris stood somewhat apart from the speakers. The wind had freshened and
her hat was tied closely over her ears. She leaned against the
taffrail, enjoying the cool breeze after hours of sultry heat. The sky
was cloudless yet, but there was a queer tinge of burnished copper in
the all-pervading sunshine. The sea was coldly blue. The life had gone
out of it. It was no longer inviting and translucent. That morning,
were such a thing practicable, she would have gladly dived into its
crystal depths and disported herself like a frolicsome mermaid. Now
something akin to repulsion came with the fanciful remembrance.

Long sullen undulations swept noiselessly past the ship. Once, after a
steady climb up a rolling hill of water, the _Sirdar_ quickly
pecked at the succeeding valley, and the propeller gave a couple of
angry flaps on the surface, whilst a tremor ran through the stout iron
rails on which the girl's arms rested.

The crew were busy too. Squads of Lascars raced about, industriously
obedient to the short shrill whistling of jemadars and quartermasters.
Boat lashings were tested and tightened, canvas awnings stretched
across the deck forward, ventilator cowls twisted to new angles, and
hatches clamped down over the wooden gratings that covered the holds.