University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XVI.

Woman! couldst thou have left the dead body of
one whom thou hadst loved, as Harold left Loena?
But he left her, nor paused, nor looked behind him, till
he stood upon the deck of the vessel. His eyes were
motionless, and the busy activity of the crew, the parting
of friend after friend, over the side of the ship; the
waving of hands, handkerchiefs—the sound of sobs and
farewells, were all unheard, unseen, by Harold. There
was only one voice, to which his heart could echo.
That was mute. There was only one touch that he
could feel—and she that might have given it, in a farewell
murmur—where was she? He shuddered. He
turned toward the city. A scarlet flag was waving
from the highest window in the governour's house.

`Oh, I am not forgotten!' he cried—`not quite the
accursed, and forgotten one! even yet there is some kind
heart to remember me—God bless thee for it! whoever
and whatever thou art, gentle creature'—his eyes
filled, and the horrible tightness of his chest abated.
`God bless thee!' he continually repeated—he started
—some one was breathing over his shoulder. It was
De Vaudreuil. He gave him a bundle of letters—embraced
him, once more in silence, and descended to his
barge. The water flashed, and ere Harold could recover

from the surprise of his appearance, the boat in
which he came, lay, a dark spot, in the red, rippling
glitter of the waves.

The third gun rang out, and the ship was under sail.
The red shawl waved again. Harold stood, bewildered,
and insensible, but watching it, as if his spirit would
take its flight, the moment that it ceased to move. A
throng of white scarfs succeeded, streaming from every
window of the house. His heart swelled—his blood flowed
again. He could have knelt and wept, in speechless,
mournful gratitude. It was so comforting—`Loena!'
O, God! he dared not think of her yet. He watched
the battlements, till his eyes ached, and his heart
ran over, all night long. O, what a night it was—so
endless—so cold and wearying. The day light broke,
and they were still in sight of the castle; and yet, Harold
did not desire to go on shore again. How strangely
are we compounded! We would not, even where we
most love, reiterate the tenderness of a farewell: mournful,
and sweet, and thrilling as it is, there is somewhat
revolting and fearful, in the idea of returning but to repeat
it. Farewell! farewell!

Another hour, and the loud breeze rang in the cordage.
Harold sat by the prow, observing the appearance
of the deep green water, not yet sufficiently recovered
from the late terrible shock, to know where he
was, or what he had lost. But this calm was not to be
forever. He gazed upon the water, from its first faint
eddying, and rippling about the prow, till it foamed up,
higher and higher, as the proud ship, impelled by the
constantly pressing wind, plunged along upon her way;
and finally ran, and roared like a mill race, all white and
shining, with commotion in the wake of their ship. Another
half hour, and the topsails creaked, the masts bent,
and the yards dipped—and forward! forward! she thundered
through the water, and the green waves washed
over her, and lightened in her chariot race. O, darkness!
`a portion of the tempest, and of thee!' Throw me upon
the ocean! By heaven! I would rather run under, under!
with every sail set, and every colour flying, to the
very bottom of the ocean, in such a wind, than to float

along the wide, beautiful water, like a tame, lifeless
animal. No! upon the sea, give me foam, and wind,
and uproar!—quiet upon the land. If I must ride the
billows, let it be in a ship, that strains fore and aft,
like a blood horse in the race!

Harold kept his place, and ate not, drank not, slept
not, until they came to the ocean. This seemed to disturb
him. Many a sorrowing face had approached, and
wished him happier, without daring to speak to him—
many! but all had at last retired, shutting up their compassion
in their own bosoms, and leaving him to the
iron solitude of his own heart.

He raised his face, and leant upon his hands—His
forehead and locks dripping with the cold spray, and
all his garments drenched with it. He shivered—and
was still again, as death. The black horizon was all before
him—the black ocean all around him—that deep,
distinct, and oppressive image of infinity—his temples
ached, and he gasped for breath, as he looked upon it.

The moon, in its fullness and beauty, shone directly
down upon a spot, so preternaturally bright, that Harold
put out his hands, mechanically, as he felt the vessel
approach it, whether in terrour or not, it was difficult
to say. They passed through it, and Harold shut his
eyes for a moment, as if he expected the vessel to leap
down. He opened his eyes, and beheld the shadow of
the ship, black as death, with all her banners and sails,
and lattice work, reaching downward, almost to infinity!
and when the last gun was fired, as they broke
out, all at once, into the tumultuous ocean, it was difficult
for poor Harold to persuade himself, that the amazingly
near, and distinct, shattering reverberation, that
he heard, was not a second gun, fired from the spectre
ship that seemed under his. He saw the white smoke roll
out below—the fire, stream—and then followed the
crashing thunder, more loudly than from the gun fired
at his side.

He started at the sound, and shuddered—and covered
his face with his hands. A female was near him.
He shrunk back with the instinctive delicacy of a lover,

profaning for the first time, and inadvertently, his allegiance
to his dear one.

The stranger was much disturbed; and leaned, for a
moment, against the railing. It was carelessly left, and
swung out. She would have fallen, had not Harold
heard a faint cry, and caught her, just as her drapery
passed him. `Her heart beats terribly,' thought Harold;
`poor creature!' and once he stood, petrified before her,
as he observed the sweeping outline of her form—She
breathed aloud—her head fell upon his shoulder.

Gracious heaven! he has shaken her off, and leaped
upon the unsteady railing—will he? dare he brave the
living God, so desperately? What power upholds him
there? Will he, the madman, will he plunge into the
roaring abyss?

O! there is something so horrible in the levity of a
maniac—something so awful, so appalling in the sublime
movement of a desperate man, in his frightful
insensibility to danger.

And there stood Harold—there!—unstayed by a rope
or a finger—upright, with his arms outstretched—and
the vessel reeling and plunging under him.

The lady arose to depart; but beholding him in his
perilous situation, became confirmed in the general belief
of the passengers, that he was crazed; she had the
presence of mind to speak to him in a tone of authority,
and command him to come down.

He obeyed—meekly, as a dying man.

Her movement was haughty, dignified, but compassionate;
and Harold was quieted. No matter who he
had first thought she was, when he shrieked and leaped
upon his perilous foot hold; it was evident that he now
found her to be some other being. She waved her hand,
and another female, who had been leaning in the shadow
of the foresail, silently and motionless, so entirely
motionless, indeed, as not to have been heard or seen,
till then, by even the timid and watchful Harold—she
tendered her arm; the first lady took it, as an accustomed
thing, for which no gratitude, no thanks were to be
given, and no surprise expressed.

Could she be a servant? She walked beautifully. She

could not tread thus, in servitude. The undulation of
her satin drapery, in the moonlight, showed off her
rounded proportions, distinctly, in a line of waving
splendour; and when she set her firm foot upon the
deck, a sudden shivering of the dress, like silver foil,
or metallick cobweb—bespoke either uncommon energy,
or uncommon agitation of heart. Which was it?

Harold followed her with his eyes, and at last, although
he knew it not, with his steps, for a few paces.
Not a word was spoken—and he followed on, he knew
not why, nor wherefore. There was a rich feeling of
communion, loneliness, and sorrow at his heart, that
drew him to her, and still he followed her. She heard
his step—and turned, and rebuked him. He faltered—
bowed—and could have thrown himself flat upon his
face, and put her foot upon his neck, with his own
hands, he felt so humbled. How came he there? Had
he listened? No! but her rebuke, so calm, so unimpassioned,
so awful in its serenity, the rebuke he felt, of a
hallowed creature, whose broken-heartedness had been
intruded upon; O! it was death to him. He wanted to
weep—to fall upon her bosom, upon any body's bosom,
and sob, and tell her, over and over again, that it was
not curiosity, no! but enchantment, that had so wrought
upon him. But he could not open his lips. He fell back,
abashed and confounded.

He had heard voices: but it was as if he had heard
them in his sleep, talking unintelligible musick to comfort
him. He had seen these women pass away, and he
had followed them, as he would a retiring vision; as
wild birds will follow wild harmony; their little hearts
giddy with the hope of hearing it once more—once
more, ere it die away, forever, in the air of heaven. O,
it was an irresistible witchery that touched so sweetly,
and so gently on the strings of his heart. Poor Harold,
even in the hours of his entirest self-possession,
could not have disobeyed it. But now, it was a spell to
him, and to break it off, was to break his heart.

He could not open his lips; and the statelier step of
the elder female, the look of offended dignity, gradually
subsided; while the younger, (for she must have been

younger, and more innocent, and more beautiful, than
the other) stood beseechingly by, and both appeared
convinced, from the manly embarrassment, the imploring,
disconsolate eyes of Harold, that if he had sinned
against courtesy, and heaven—for heaven is courtesy—
he had sinned unwittingly.

They descended to their state room alone. Why did
not Harold offer his arm? He knew not. He dared not.
He was fettered, rooted to the spot. Was it with shame,
contrition, or what? Where was Loena? Where his other
love, the abused and rifled? Away, away—and no monitory
voice near to sound the alarum in his heart—to tell
him, that he was playing treason with his fealty—sleeping,
where the bandages of his allegiance were parting,
like untwisted flax in the flame.

Here was another sleepless night, to wear upon his
broken and wearied spirit. Why is it, that, to them
who have most need of sleep, sleep cometh not? There
is no forgetfulness, no suspension of sorrow—but the
happy, they are so sweetly and benignly refreshed, that
the longest night is, to them, but one blessed moment
of interruption: fitting them anew for enjoyment—But
to the weary in heart, there is no refreshment, even in
forgetfulness. The troubled element on which they
would repose, is never entirely still—they are incessantly
agitated and terrified.

Alas, for Harold! A continual and confused ringing
was about him, all night long. Worn, and trembling,
and sick at heart, time appeared to stand still, as he
turned, again and again, and adjusted his limbs to the
rugged cordage, upon which he lay, until he was utterly
exhausted. If he slumbered for a moment, he would
feel himself sinking, and would leap, like a drowning
man from the water, with a loud, inarticulate cry, as if
his very blood vessels were bursting with horrour; yet
hardly would he shut his aching eyes again, than he would
feel that, upon which he lay, gradually yielding, like the
loose fragments of a crumbling precipice; and that by
which he held, instinctively, even in his sleep, lest in
the lurching and heaving of the ship, he might be lost,
before he could recommend his soul to God; even that

gradually detaching itself, like a ruptured branch, until
he would shriek, like a falling man, and start broad
awake, with foam upon his lips, and the sweat standing
upon his bosom and forehead—the sweat of his own
heart. His conscience was wofully beset too; he thought
the morning had past, and that the last sun had arisen
in darkness—that the heavens above, where all was of
a preternatural blackness, had passed away, forever.
All about him was of such an inconceivable, appalling
infinitude. `O, that I could be near thee, once more,
my beloved, even in thy narrow home—how calmly
would I await the trumpet. With thy hand in mine,
sweet; thy innocent face turned toward mine, O, I
could see nought of terrour, or flame: nought but heaven
and love. I would that I were with thee, wherever
thou art, love!' His thought was still bewildered. He was
not, even yet, awake to the whole dreadful reality of his
loss; and he continued, `O, why did I ever leave thee,
love? leave thee too, without one of the innumerable blessings
with which my soul overflowed!—without expressing
a thousandth part of the endearment that I ought.
And thou, too—I have already forgotten thy last kiss.
Where was it? When was it? Surely there is something
deadly cold hanging upon my heart—I cannot
even recollect where we parted. Art thou, O Loena,
art thou forgotten so soon?—or—O, horrour! is my poor
brain darkened by some portentous calamity? God,
have mercy on me!' As these thoughts passed, like
flashing fire, through and through him, he could have
thrown himself overboard, as he lay, and swum back
to her, merely to announce, what in her presence he had
forgotten—a few, a very few, of the ten thousand things
of tenderness and weeping affection—to repeat, forever,
and ever, his protestations and caresses. And then his
conscience would awake, and put on her bloody robes,
and sit over him with a terrible countenance—and he
would feel himself pinioned, naked, hand and foot—helpless,
alone—with just enough of light to see the far off
and dim movement of innumerable feet, incessantly approaching
in the darkness, as of some cumbrous, and interminable
monster—and to feel ten thousand detestable
and obscene creatures crawling slowly over his very lips
and eyes, which he had no power to shut—slimy,
loathsome reptiles, slipping lazily over his naked fingers;
while his very flesh crawled and quivered, and
rotted, in the poison that they left in their trail. Anon,
this would be changed. The light would break out
upon him—he would be sleeping in a delicious green
solitude—the earth flowering all about him, with fountains
flowing `in odour and gold'—and violets—`but the
trail of the serpent was over them all.' He would lie,
so happy, so purely, so perfectly happy—he would feel
an approaching face—his hair would be stirred by a
gentle breathing—he would awake, and behold two miniature
pictures of himself—a pair of the loveliest blue
eyes over him, dissolving in lustre—with an image of
himself in each—damp, luminous—transparent—like the
swimming azure of heaven—or violets exhaling colour,
and substance, and perfume, all in the red sunshine!
Something cold would touch him. He would start; and
lo! Elvira would pass before his eyes, with swollen
lips, and blood-shot eyes, pronouncing his name aloud,
with a hollow voice, like one on her death bed—`Harold,
Harold the destroyer! I summon thee before the
judgment seat! I am there! and lo! I await thy coming!'
Again the scene would shift, in the convulsion of his
heart—A sky of clouded gold would be over him, lacquered
with every brilliant hue—inlaid with all the colouring
of a Turkish cymeter—bloody pearl, and blue,
with rippling silver and crimson—all the boundless
landscape so still, in such sublime repose! Spirits would
go walking by him, arm and arm, in the heavens;
and now and then, one would pause, and lay his hand
upon his fellows' heart, which instantly broke out, like
a loud organ, with all manner of echoing harmonies.
Then, a strange obscurity would arise, like the vapour
of charnel houses, offensive and sickening—and some
other violent transition would succeed, alternately—
from heaven to hell, from hell to heaven, would he vibrate,
like a pendulum.
And then, as if the very dead were suddenly thrilling
with life, and borne away—to the tranquillest climes:

Anon, the magnificent phenomena of heaven would
be rolling over him—his own forest trees would
glimmer in the star light; the river, where he had so
often bathed, would sparkle at his feet, and the long
grass would dip and float away, and ripple beautifully
before him—and Loena, his own Loena, would
trip softly behind him—he would hear her coming,
with her little naked feet, and determine to enjoy her
surprise. She would lay her hand upon his shoulder—
he would turn; his eyes running over with heaven and
love, to press her beautiful mouth—he would turn—
and the blue face of a dead woman, with eyeless sockets,
and bare teeth, would touch his lips. `God!
God!' and yet he could not wake—no, nor sleep. It
was one everlasting delirium—a creature, he felt he
was, even then, impregnate with divinity and fire, but
helpless and motionless, rotting away in solitude. He
would shriek—he would awake—all was dark about
him; nevertheless, to his senses, he was still asleep.
He heard the roaring of the water—he felt the salt spray
washing over him, but he feared to move, lest he should
be drowned, and knew not whether he were going forward
or backward—nor indeed, whether he was living
or dead. All about him was intensely doubtful and
unreal. He put out his hands, and stretched his fingers.
The coiled cordage was there—to his diseased touch,
it was a folded serpent, of immeasurable longitude, covered
with eyes and hair. He thrust them upward;
they encountered gaping wounds—the very air was
sticky and glutinous to his lungs, as with blood—its
loathsome smell too, was all about him—the darkness
was crowded with livid faces—shuddering with swollen

lips—eyes bursting from their sockets, and dropping
with coagulated blood. He shut his eyelids, and covered
his face with both hands, and held his breath. `It is
dark,' he muttered. `It is perfectly dark—I can see nothing—hear
nothing—and yet I am sure that there is
something near me—something walking continually
around me. Ask me not how this is—how it can be.
It is—that is enough for me. I feel it. I know it. Gracious
God —there!—do I not feel the blood spurting
in my face—there!—there!—drop after drop is trickling
from my forehead to my lips—oh—and I cannot
stir hand nor foot—I cannot even turn my head'—It was
the salt water only, dashed over him, by a sudden dip of
the vessel; and the drops came from the saturated sail
above, deadly cold, but to his fervid temples, they appeared
hot and scalding—`again! there! there!—the very
hair upon my forehead stirred by gasping breath—Ho,
there!—a dying man is upon me—I am strangled—
drowning—pinioned—ho, there! help! for mercy's sake!
help!'

His cries were so terrible, that the whole ship's company
were alarmed. They surrounded the trembling creature
with lights, on which he started, as if they were the
self illuminated torches of the sepulcre. They attempted
to soothe him. He was sullen, and recovered for a
moment, sufficiently to rebuke them. They left him, all
but one human creature, who determined to lie by him,
and protect him, in his paroxysms, even from himself;
nay, he was half inclined to lash him to the vessel, as
he lay, secretly, lest some sudden movement might be
fatal, before he could interfere. But he dared not. He
was full of mortal apprehension, when he looked upon
the awful countenance of young Harold.

He soon became more composed; and was evidently
beginning to recollect some of the incidents attending
his departure. `O, what an unappeasable longing!—I
have left thee, dear, left thee, with no human being to
protect thee—forgive me, love! I am frail. Be thou
not so frail—accursed wretch! would he have harmed
thine innocence? Where is he now? With thee—with
thee, perhaps—now, who shall protect thee? Ten thousand

curses on my folly! Why did I ever leave thee?
dear, dear, Loena! Wilt thou love me yet? Wilt thou?
May he not—hell and furies! no, I will not think of it.
O, be true to me, love, and I will be true to thee, forever;
to blood and death!'

Here came back his love again, with jealousy, too, like
a torrent, to his heart, rushing and thundering through
all its channels, like a pent up ocean, suddenly discharged
over a broken boundary; all his arteries were sore, and
trembling with the conflict, and his temples were smitten
with sudden pain, as his bereaved and benighted intellect
started from her sleep, and kindled her lamp, anew,
and sought out her offspring. He arose, moved his benumbed
and weltering limbs. It was already the hour
of daylight, and yet the darkness weighed upon him
like something heavy. The pitching of the vessel began
to affect him, and the anxiety of his mind, as Memory
went groping through his treasures, disturbing the relicks,
and hallowed things, with a vulgar, rummaging,
unsparing, hand, became insupportable. He shrank, as
from a ruffian visitor, who invades your sanctuary, and
rifles it, in his rude attempt at consolation; letting in the
hateful daylight, upon the sores and fissures of your naked,
wounded, ulcerated, and broken heart. What dear
thing might she not touch, in her unhallowed carelessness!
Whose ashes? Whose hair?

His heart failed him. The past was all a grave yard
to him, and to explore it, was to profane it. `Accursed
be the foot of the intruder upon it! accursed the light,
other than a funeral vapour, which shines upon it,' said
Harold. `Be my retirement undisturbed—unvisited—I
hate the impertinent meddling of the compassionate:
them, that gossip with the afflicted.'

Of storms upon the water, Harold had heard; that
they were very terrible, he believed. But he panted
to hear the approach of their wings and trumpets.
Lord! how his spirit rose, and lashed itself, at the sound
of their coming. But they passed. He felt his heart
drooping; and a sickening, questionless despondency lying,
like a dead weight, upon his vitals—like the pressure
of a decayed hand, damp and cold. His bead ached

to bursting. Streams of fire shot through his eye-balls.
The hot sweat ran down his cheeks like rain—and then,
he was so faint! so sick at heart! sick and faint, with a
death like, tremulous sensation, attended with scorching
heat, and cold shivering, in succession. `What had he
done, to deserve this, all this,' he asked. He went to the
cabin, for the first time, and crept into a spare birth,
there to die, as quietly as he might. He had no other
wish or thought. `What have I done?' he repeated to
himself, as he laid his wet forehead and hair upon the
mattrass. `What done. O, I have deserted the kindest,
truest one! and where am I to find another? not
upon earth. Then why should I live?' He started: a
ripple ran along by his elbow in the birth—he felt the
articulated movement of some sea reptile: perhaps a
shark cleaving the water; and a sort of quick splashing,
as if the creature had just gone entirely by. His blood
ran cold. Who could tell, what bloated monster,
gorged already with the festering garbage of the great
deep—what filthy and horrible shape, fattened on some
floating and swollen human body, which it had preyed
upon, in its hideous restlessness—amid the unceasing
agitation of wind, and waves, and brine, and muscles!
who could tell what abominable, slimy creature of this
dark element was now busied by the side of poor Harold,
drawn by the scent of her prey—separated from it
only by one plank!—floundering and circling at his side,
at his very elbow! gracious heaven! the measureless, bottomless
solitudes of the ocean upturned—and all their
tenantry rolling about him, and under him, and above
him, and over him—all unwieldly and ravenous monsters,
from the four corners of the sea, revelling in their
dominion, about the mighty ship, as she thundered
upon her pathway, and exulting in the certainty and
nearness of their appointed meal. Another thrill—
could he be dreaming again? He sat instantly upright;
but his right arm and shoulder to the finger-ends, were
numb and lifeless—a dreadful sensation, heavy, leaden,
and lumpish, wanting the dignity of pain, and the
activity of torment, followed. That, or either he would
have borne. His Indian nature would have scorned all
burning, fiery agonies. He could bear to be torn with
red hot pincers, but the bravest will strike, and so
would Harold, with a gesture of impatience, the moscheto
that stung. So, too, the soldier that faces a shower
of bullets, will turn his back upon the small dust, that
is raised in a high wind—because, if he face the latter,
he would meet, instead of applause, with derision. And
is this all that makes us bear pain without flinching? It
is.

Never was Harold's proud spirit so quelled. He was
sick, and labouring under the reproof of his own heart.
A beleaguring darkness was about him, accompanied
with a fearful derangement of his faculties, confounding
the past, present, and future. He had fallen. `Would
she prove firmer than he had been?' he asked himself.
Was she more accessible? less tender? more cautious?
had she more self-command? less curiosity? and did
she love more than he, when he fell? The answer was
a ten fold agony; the riotingof his undisciplined spirit.

Was there no relief? Yes, in occupation. But how
to occupy himself? He could not endure the mysterious
trifling of cards and chess—that was too unsocial, selfish,
agitating. Such, at least, was his opinion. He had
seen lovers quarrel over the board—fathers and children
war with each other—and wives neglected, sitting
alone—company forgotten—all the civilities of life
overlooked; while the chess board, with a damnable infatuation,
was, like a battle field, literally pictured upon
the hearts of them that combatted thereon.

But Harold knew not then, what he afterwards learnt,
that all games are selfish delusions: that all games may
elicit evil passion, and that chess of all others, should
be the game of the statesman and the soldier—teaching
fortitude, patience, firmness, perseverance, foresight,
reflection, strengthening the memory, and exercising
the judgment beyond all other studies.

This was his game, nevertheless. The deep pressure
of the eye—the alternate flashes of crimson and paleness,
over the forehead, and the immovable engagedness of
the combatants, were a proof to him that there was
something warlike and entrancing in it. He was right.

It is a game of perpetual generalship and stratagem. A
blockhead never played a good game of chess, no, nor
an impatient, a short-sighted, or capricious man. Days
had passed, and nights had followed, and Harold was
still the same. He seemed to have entirely forgotten
the situation in which he left Loena: and the two female
strangers avoided him with obvious care, as an unhappy
wretch, crazed perhaps, by remorse—who could
not be bettered by their prayers or tears. At times, they
were inclined to remonstrate with the captain for not
confining him, and even for having taken him on board;
but when they looked in his face, their eyes filled, and
they could not speak unkindly of him, even in his absence.

At last, he began to sleep soundly. He was able to
recal, upon his knees, all that had happened. `And is
she dead? poor girl!' he would say. `No, no, I will
not believe it. Desperate as is the hope, I will cling to
it. I will never believe that she is dead, until I meet
her, face to face, at the judgment seat—no, never!'

He was awakened from a delightful dream, by a loud
trampling upon deck—the bell rang—the drum beat—
the enginery suddenly moved, with its chains and
windlass, as if under the convulsive effort of all the
ship's company—Almighty God! that shock!—Harold
was thrown out of his birth—the water rushed over
him, and the knell, as of a drowning multitude, from
the very bottom of the ocean, mounted and pealed, and
rang, and thundered up the sky. Shrieks followed!
`She is going! she is going!' he heard many voices cry
—the ship keeled—stopped—wavered for a moment—
shuddered like a living creature upon the verge of a
precipice—and lo! the waves rolled over her, and came,
like breakers, down the companion way. Not a sound
nor a step, was heard upon deck. Was she going down?
whence this mortal stillness? Harold leaped upon deck.
Not a soul was to be seen. The sails were flying loose
upon the wind, and tearing loudly at every flap—the
waves rushing over her, like a cataract, and her head
all under water: the guns were broken from their moorings,

and the steering wheel was, though of solid
iron, shivered into ten thousand pieces.

What was to be done? A man leaped upon deck,
half-naked, and gasping for breath. He had a trumpet;
he blew it, as if he would awake the dead. The deck
was covered in an instant—lights were kindled—the
rudder lashed down. The ship rounded to, and righted,
with the loss of all her top masts, and her bowsprit
sprung. But what, what in the name of horrour, had
happened? was the cry. None knew—none could conjecture.
It was very dark—the wind blew, and the sky
thundered—`Was she on fire? had she struck a rock—
an ice island?'—At this moment, the lightning blazed
down upon the water, and showed a circular wake of
white foam, behind, as far as the eye could reach. The
captain looked at the compass; they were driven entirely
out of their course—but the watch, the pilot, where
were they? The truth broke upon them, all at once.
She had run foul of something, when tilting at her fullest
speed, and shipped a sea that swept her decks.
And Harold now recollected, that, as he came up, he
saw afar off, by a blaze of lightning, that almost blinded
him, something black and shattered, suddenly disappear,
in the broad and foaming wake of the ship. Yes,
it was too true! they had run down a smaller vessel, at
midnight, and sent her under, with every living soul,
as they were sleeping, perhaps!—and the cry—that appalling
cry, as of a suffocating army—that was from
the few who saw the danger, and wrenched the windlas
in vain, to avoid it; poor fellows! they were going
down, and would be forever and ever, going down, to
the bottomless ocean!'

And the survivors were but a little behind them—
their ship was filling fast, and the mainmast soon went
by the board. By the blessing of heaven, however,
their minute guns were heard, and answered. A great
black shadow emerged from the horizon, and bore
down upon them, in the storm. Their fifth gun was
hardly fired, when, amid the thunder of heaven, the
roaring winds, and the boiling, whirling, agitated
ocean, up came a great ship, crowded with sails, and
covered with people, foaming and plunging along the

path, like some mighty monarch, to the relief of the
disconsolate.

Another hour, and the deck of a British 84 was covered
with half-naked, shrieking, shivering wretches,
among whom were many females, and some, with babes
in their bosoms. They prayed to stay by the sinking
ship, so long as there was any thing to be seen of her;
and that they might the more easily do this, at the last
visit of the long boat, the officer hung a lantern at each
of her yards that was standing.

Harold had been completely roused by this adventure.
His first thought was of the two women who had
so marvellously interested him at first. Their images
were still upon his mind, burning and distinct: but then,
so were many images of his dreaming; might not these
women be apparitions of a troubled sleep? He was not
half satisfied with the thought. But in peril, he was the
first to find them. He broke open their door without
ceremony, and literally plucked them out by the locks.
They were distracted, locked in each other's arms, and
dying with affright. Now they forgot his phrenzy. They
permitted him to stand by them, and comfort them, not
with words, for he spake not, but with looks: looks that
were so resolute, so collected, that the poor, helpless
creatures clung to him, in consummate confidence,
young as he was, and terrible as he had been. Such is
the prerogative of true greatness. It is unseen, except
in times of trial and intimidation. Then it comes up,
bares its right arm, and stands out, the champion of the
whole human family, against all that dare to assail them
—the inundation, and the tempest.

He had saved two human creatures—he, whose
trode had been destruction, hitherto. How different
were his feelings now. Scarcely had he clasped the offered
hand of the younger lady, which he did, with a
feeling of devoutness that never before visited his
heart, of thankfulness, that set his wet locks shivering
upon his pale forehead, than he lifted his eyes to the
fiery and rolling heavens, and fainted.

He slept—his insensibility was delicious. He dreamed
of his beloved—was forgiven, restored, and blessed,

with lips, and hands, and eyes. But oh, when life came
back—then was the trial! His lungs, sore and shrinking
as they were, seemed suddenly inflated with a whirlwind
of fire! lava ran through his veins, and scorched
his nerves; and a horrible numbness was experienced
about the region of the heart, resembling, in nature,
though ten thousand times more aggravated, the sickly,
fretful, unwilling return of life, to a benumbed limb—
when you dread to lift it, and the very muscles ache
at the simple thought of moving it. Yea, they forced
him back to life again; and many deaths had been preferable
to one such resuscitation.