"We ran her in," he added, "with the snow blinding us. It was working up for a heavy blow, and as we'd have to beat her out we couldn't take sail off her. We stood on until we heard the sea along the edge of the ice, and then there was nothing to do but jam her on the wind and thrash her clear. There was only a plank or two of the boat, an oar, and Charly's cap, when we came back again!"
"After all, though the boat was smashed, they might have got out," Hastings suggested.
"Well," said Dampier simply, "it didn't seem likely. The ice was sharp and ragged, and there was a long wash of sea. A man's not tough enough to stand much of that kind of hammering."
Agatha's face grew a little whiter, but Dampier, who had paused, went on again.
"Anyway," he said, "they didn't turn up at the inlet as we'd fixed, and that decided the thing. If Wyllard had been alive, he surely would have done."
"Isn't it just possible that he might have fallen into the hands of the Russians?" asked Hastings.
"I naturally thought of that, but so far as the chart shows there isn't a settlement within leagues of the spot. Besides, supposing the Russians had got him, how could I have helped him? They'd have sent him off in the first place to one of the bigger settlements in the South, and if the authorities couldn't have connected him with any illegal sealing they'd no doubt have managed to send him across to Japan by and bye. In that case, he'd have got home without any trouble."
He paused, and it was significant that he turned to Agatha with a little deprecatory gesture.
"No," he added, "there was nothing I could do."
It was evident that Agatha acquitted him, but she asked a question.
"Captain Dampier," she said, "had you any expectation of finding those three men when you sailed the second time?"
"No," said the bronzed sailorman, with an impressive quietness, "I hadn't any, and I don't think Wyllard had either. Still, he meant to make quite certain." He spread a hard hand out forcibly. "He felt he had to."
He gazed at Agatha, and saw comprehension in her eyes.
"Yes," she said, "and when you have said that, as you have done, you could have said very little more of any man."
Then she turned her head away from them, and once more there was for a few moments a heavy silence in the room. It cost the girl a painful effort to sit still, apparently unmoved, but there was strength in her, and she would not betray her distress. She felt that the latter must be quietly grappled with. It was almost overwhelming, horribly acute, but there was mingled with it a faint consolatory thrill of pride, for it was clear that the man who had loved her had done a splendid thing. He had given all that had been given him--and she knew she would never forget that phrase of his--willingly, and it seemed to her that the gifts he had been entrusted with were rare and precious ones--steadfast, unflinching courage, compassion, and the fine sense of honour which had sent him out on that forlorn hope. He had gone down, unyielding and undismayed--she felt curiously sure of that--amidst the blinding snow, but this was his vindication which had crowned him with immortal laurels.