A sharp cry came from
the gun-boat, a cry sharply in contrast with its crew's former yells of
triumph. There came another six-pounder shell, this time cutting
cleanly through the Tampico's bow. But that was the last. On, on like
an avenging sea-monster swept the _Tampico_, sullen, silent, with the
potential energy of dynamite lurking in the force of her momentum. And
straight, inexorable, Captain Merrithew stood on the bridge with his
hands on the wheel spokes. No longer was he young in the eyes of
Virginia Howland. No, he was old, old as the avenging ages and as
cruel, as cold as the march of time. Straight he made for the pretty
white side of the gun-boat, as some grim executioner might measure for
the blow of the sword which was to sever the white neck of some captive
maid, some Joan of Arc. And the girl caught his spirit and became
cruel too. She laughed at the gun-boat, as she fired again; she
laughed as the _Tampico_ quivered and went to the heart of the quarry;
she laughed as Dan, with another twist of the wheel, made more sure of
his victim.
The screw of the gun-boat revolved desperately. She was backing; but
it was too late. Another sound now! A heaving swell rose in between
and threw the bow of the steamship slightly off. With an angry cry Dan
jerked at the wheel.
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