University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVII.

I am weary of this childish pedantry. I have done
with quotations. My obedience, to the foolish and
preposterous fashion of the day, has now been carried
far enough. If I cannot be permitted to write for myself,
and in English, I wont write at all. My own
story shall be told in my own way. I shall continue
my narrative, henceforth, so long as I find it interesting
to myself—in my own language, and no longer.
The devil may take them that delight in gabble and
patchwork—the fag ends of all languages, and all men.
I'll have nothing more to do with either.

It was sunshine again. Harold was still alone. Every
eye was upon him, and at every pause in the conversation,
some low whispers, even from the children, would
show how deeply all were interested in his happiness,
or, at least, in his appearance. His immoveable attitude,
his unaffected abstraction, the sublimity of his desolate
aspect, were all matters of exceeding curiosity and

admiration, for a time. The children, sweet innocents!
clung to him, and, after a few circling gambols, in every
one of which, they came nearer and nearer, till they
provoked him to put out his hand, mechanically, to arrest
one of their number, all, as by one consent, began a
riotous assault upon him. His countenance brightened,
for a moment, in spite of himself, as he participated in
their rude merriment. Why was his face, so repulsive
to man, and attractive to these babes? How vivid and
distinct must be the touches of humanity in such a face,
to be visible, so instantly, to children! How soon, too,
the little creature, the nursling at the breast, nay, the
very brute, how soon it will discover, and hide itself,
from the portentous lowering of an evil eye. The
thought that curls the lip, the most secret, lurking malignity
of man's face, are detected by the sunny blue eye
of childhood, almost as readily as by the dark, penetrating
orb of experience.

To the good man, or rather, the good-hearted man,
however unhappy, haughty, and repulsive, the child
and the brute will hie for protection. From the bad
man, with all his allurement and fascination, they will
fly, with a mortal antipathy. Is not this most wise?
Ought evil to be mistaken? And when the dark passions
of our nature utter their own testimony against
us, and emblazon their evidence upon our very fronts;
who, that reflects, will lightly tamper with them? who
would not, rather, the moment that he feels the stirrings
of their rebellion, arise in his strength, and bind
them hand and foot.

The children were soon called away, and separated,
but Harold was again roused from his revery—during
the latter part of which, there was a growing fierceness
in his eyes—a more difficult breathing, and heaving of
the chest—by the touch of an infant's hand. He looked
down, and beheld the sweetest little fellow in the world,
slyly thrusting a part of his cake into his hand, as it
hung lifelessly over a gun carriage. The company had
all paired off. Those who were acquainted, and those
who were not; the passengers of the last vessel, and the
men of this, were all to be distinguished by the thousand

indescricable somethings which mark the intercourse
of people, even when lolling together. Refined
spirits cannot be familiar at once, even where
their lives have been saved together.

Harold laid his cheek upon the head of the child.
The little creature looked up in his face, clapped his
hands aloud, and called out, `O, my pa! my pa!'—Harold
coloured to the eyes. He dared not look up, fearful
of encountering the distressed countenance of some
youthful mother.

Harold was unaccountably affected by the manner of
the child. Perhaps he was deceived, but the voice, so
thrilling passionate, and sweet, sounded half familiar
to him. Willing to conceal his embarrassment, which
increased to a fever, as the boy persisted in caressing
him, and even crying to get up in his lap, Harold began
questioning him.

`Well, my little hero: so your name is—what?'

`What, pa?'

`Dont call me pa, dear; I am not your pa—'

`O, yes, you be—you be!' reiterated the child, putting
its little hand over his mouth.

`Well, well. What is your name.'

`Leopold,' was the reply. He could hardly pronounce
it, and it was not till he had several times repeated
it, that Harold could comprehend the sound.

`Well, Leopold—how old are you. I suppose you
know?'

`What, pa?'

Harold smiled in spite of himself, at the pertinacity
of the child, but repeated his question. `How old are
you my dear?'

`Three years old, next—no—two years old, the fifth
day of last June.'

`No more!' cried Harold in astonishment, kissing
him again and again. Harold had no experience in such
matters, and would have set this boy down as five, at
least; such was the spirited intelligence of his countenance—the
celestial animation of his clear hazel eye,
as he prattled away clapping his hands, and kicking up
his heels. Indeed, the creature seemed actually transparent—his

skin was so clear, his rosy blood so hasty
and rash, that at every pulsation, his face glowed all
over, and his eyes sparkled afresh.

The boy fell asleep in Harold's bosom, and there
slept, until a female servant, who, Harold now recollected,
had been near him during the whole of his prattle,
approached to take him away. But the child awoke,
and clung to him, and was permitted to stay. The evening
air blew sweetly over them, and all the company
were walking about, with a drowsy, contented, indolent
expression of tranquillity and listlessness. Some lay about
the deck, by the indulgence of the captain, with a beautiful
negligence of all ceremony, and in such unapprehensive
security, as it was delightful to reflect upon, after
one had so narrowly escaped foundering. The deep
stillness, that stole over them—as the night deepened,
and the great sails swelled in the wind, of which there
was just enough to keep them steadily filled was
like religion. There was a solemnity and tenderness
too, in every living creature aboard, as if they were attending
some incantation, from the priesthood of nature—the
spirits of the ocean, sceptred and mitred.

This would be broken by some sleepy observation,
uttered, in mere weariness, by some one of the company,
more as if he were thinking aloud, than with the desire
of provoking conversation. But the spell would be
broken. The holiness of the time would be forgotten.
Another would speak —another! until the whole deck
was resounding again. But this would not continue long
—one voice would drop away after another. A longer
interval would occur between questions and replies,
showing no unusual symptom in the listener, until all
would be hush again as the house of death—an uninterrupted
stillness, that it was fearful, nay, almost irreligious
to break in upon, with aught but musick or
prayer.

Harold felt a delicious melancholy, like the newly
comforted, amid this scenery. His cheek rested
against the warm cheek of the sweet boy, whose breath,
like a continual whisper, went by his ear, while his little

fat hands were thrust, cake and all, into Harold's
bosom.

The fancy of Harold led him back, dancing and singing,
to the times of his boyhood, when he was as happy,
and as innocent, (for the innocent are always happy)
as this child. He shut his eyes. He heard his native
winds blowing among the green leaves—he saw
the blossoms flutter and fall like butterflies—he saw
the sparkling of wild birds among the high tree tops,
and heard their liquid piping all about him—one would
begin in the silence—another, another, till the whole
air would ring again—then, one would fall off—another,
and another, till a dead, breathless silence followed—
and there was the blue water too, the same—rippling at
his feet.

Harold was startled by a strange voice near him;
strange, not so much, for being the voice of a stranger,
as for being so calm, steady, and authoritative. It was
a deliberate, articulate musick, and evidently came
from one, whose opinion was not to be disputed, or had
not often been. And yet there was no arrogance, no
assumption in it. It was rather the calm thinking aloud,
of habitual greatness, and self-possession.

The voice was retiring; and the person, whoever he
was, descended to his apartment; for his voice was
heard no more, that night.

`What think you of him?' was timidly articulated
by some female, yet nearer him, as if retorting a question.

He turned. Was it addressed to him?—no—for a
quick, snappish voice replied—`think of him!—I!—
why, that he is a quack, and a fool.'

`A fool!—O, no, that is impossible! what amazing
colloquial power he has. Did you ever hear the like
before?'

`Never, Julia! and hope never to, again.'

`Indeed!'

`Yes—indeed!—cousin. But what think you of him?'

`What do I think of him?'

`Julia! look at me. You are not accustomed to echoing

my words, in this way—are you bewitched? Come
tell me; what is your opinion of him?'

`Upon my word, I have not dared to form one yet.'

`Not dared! you are strangely scrupulous just now
—I have wondered at your forbearance. You have
not spoken a loud word since you saw him—his name
has been constantly upon your lips—your eyes have
been rivetted upon his face, and yet, for the first time
in your life, you have not dared to think for yourself.
Come—now for it.'

`Nay, then, cousin—I will not. I do not think that
either you or I, are capable of estimating that man
aright.'

`Well done, Julia! Is he not haughty beyond all endurance;
absolute and dictatorial in his manner?—and
what a wicked, devilish temper he must have. Nay,
Julia, this looks suspicious. Don't leave me, till you
have answered me in some way—yes, or no.'

`Well then—no! no! no! He is not haughty. Do you
not see how affable, how kind he is to the servants, and
the children. He is only haughty, as a great man
should be, when obtrusive impertinence is to be rebuked.'

`Thank ye, dear.'

`No, no, cousin—you know me too well to suspect
that I have any allusion to you, now. If I am disposed
to affront another, you know too, that it is not my way
to deal in hints, or inuendoes. I leave nothing to conjecture—nothing
to explanation. But this man—he is
dictatorial to us, and why? because I am sure that he is
right, when he opens his lips, and that we are wrong—
no matter what the subject is, he is at home, every
where, and though his opinions seem hasty and spontaneous,
yet I find, on listening to him, that they have
been well considered, and prepared for use before, and
laid by for occasion—and then, his temper—'

`Do you remember the dinner table?'

`Do I?—yes—with a proud heart. He, a bad temper!
look at his forehead, when he is undisturbed—is it
not full of natural benignity? I ask ye, cousin? Did you
ever see a countenance fuller of serenity, beautiful serenity?

sublimated, I admit, and ready to be changed
in a moment, like the blue sky above, when the thunder
assails it.

`Really, cousin; you are getting quite poetical.'

`Really, cousin, I scorn to be other than poetical, if
enthusiasm and warmth be poetry, when such a creature
is traduced.'

`But what think you of his antagonist?'

`His antagonist! pshaw! The coxcomb—he, whose
head is a toyshop, and heart, impurity—whose discourse
is a perpetual digression.'

`But the style of his conversation—is it not delightful—entertaining,
beyond expression?'

`His conversation! I never heard him converse, I
protest. I have heard him talk—and talk—and then, he
is so awkward—so sentimental—so lack-a-daisical, too.'

`And then, there is the colonel—surely you cannot
object to his colloquial powers; or his address.'

`His address!—ha! ha! ha!—do you remember his address
in getting himself out of the scrape at the table?
Yes, I thought that was very well—' says he, `sir, this,
and sir, that—and by God, this, sir—and by God, that,
swearing till my blood ran cold—and then, says my
hero, in his calm way, laying down his knife and fork;
(O, I could have hugged him, and kissed him for it, on
the spot!) and looking the terrible colonel, directly in
the eyes—`Sir, there are ladies present—' and then, oh!
the gallant colonel! `the fiery duke! the hot duke!' he had
the audacity, you know, just to strike the table with his
fist, and swear another tremendous volley—and then—
O, but stay, cousin, don't go—you know I stayed for
you, just now, when you were at my favourite, tooth
and nail. And now, tell me; do you know the result?'

`No, I do not.'

`Well, don't be snappish, and I'll tell you. You all
scampered off, you know, as if you saw blood upon the
table. But I stayed. There was a dead silence after the
ladies had gone—and O, never shall I forget the terrible
calmness of my hero—`sir,' said he, after looking
yours in the face, for more than a minute— I tell you
what it is, colonel, this bullying won't do for me. Your

manner convinces me that you are a fool, and I have
no doubt that you are a coward. Nay, don't interrupt
me, for by the living God! if you open your lips before
I have finished, I'll throw you out of the cabin window.
I have endured a great deal of your presumption and
impertinence. It is time that they were curbed. Now,
mark me—if I see any more of these airs, while I am
on board this vessel, I will make an example of you.'
Saying this, he turned to leave the room; but the colonel
made a desperate effort to reply.'

`Well, sir; and suppose I do, sir—what will you do,
sir?'

`My hero looked at him, with such pity, for a moment,
and then, deliberately added, in a tone, that
thrilled my blood—`I!—I will chastise you upon the
spot—horsewhip you!'

Harold was delighted with this girl; and was a long
time puzzling himself to determine what had caused
her vivacity and emphasis, as she had gone on; but
without success, until he caught her eye glancing at
him; innocently, to be sure. Harold looked round. He
was the only man near enough to hear what she said;
and although she affected to be so carried away by her
own feelings, as to be insensible of his proximity, still,
Harold had experience enough of the human heart to
perceive that her vivacity was not natural, and would
not have been so extreme, had she really been alone
with her cousin.

The fact was, that the lively creature was showing
off, in the festivity of her spirit, merely because she
knew that a handsome stranger was near enough to
hear her, without rudeness.

Harold turned, and listened. The speaker was small,
and exquisitely fashioned—a pale girl, with waving,
heavy tresses, and eyes sparkling with vivacity—but
they instantly changed, and languished through their
tresses.

The voice of authority was heard again. `Hush!
hush!' she exclaimed! `I hear his tread.'

The stranger entered. He was about the middle size,
but he had an eagle eye; and his voice was as strong,

clear, and deep-running, as before, into cadence, without
affectation or effort. He continued speaking to some
one that walked at his side, along the deck; and his
tone was so full and natural, his language so simple
and energetick—so awfully distinct at times, that, had
you not seen him pass before you, a small, thin man,
you would have looked, on hearing his voice, for the
movement and carriage of something above humanity.

`Young man!' such was the purport of his conversation,
as it was caught at intervals, in his going and
returning before Harold, with such an air of unlaboured
majesty.—`this disposition must be subdued. You
are making yourself, and every body else unhappy. It
is time that you should be made to feel. You have a
generous spirit—a brave one—and I mean to give you
a lesson, that will make you a wiser and better man;
still it is possible, for such is the way of the world,
that you may prefer taking my heart's blood, to following
my advice. Be it so. I shall put them both before
you. You shall take your choice. The other passengers
I see, are afraid of you. So they were of the colonel—
nay, be patient.'

`Sir!' cried the other, as if thunderstruck—`by what
authority, sir, do you dare—'

`By the authority of wisdom and experience,' continued
his tormentor, in the same tone—`dare!—young
man! it is long since I have dared any thing.'

`Sir!'

`And sir, I will not be interrupted—silence!—hear
me!'

`You are in a perpetual wrangle. Your aliment is
paradox and contradiction. We have yielded too often
to you. It has made you presumptuous. I respect you.'

`You!' said the other, in astonishment, but evidently
with delight.

`Yes, I do. But what we at first took for constitutional
vivacity, we have discovered now, to proceed
from an insupportable arrogance—self-sufficiency. You
have had the vanity to imagine, because we would
not take up your boyish gauntlet, every time that it was
hurled down, that we dared not, or could not withstand
you. What! must men of my age, wrestle with a child,

whenever it shall please him; or be bound to admit
whatever he says, as true? I speak plainly, young man,
for I mean to be understood. Nay, I mean that you
shall remember every word, to your dying day.'

Fire flashed from the eyes of the younger. His lip
trembled, and he stood, measuring the other, from head
to foot, as if undetermined whether to fell him to the
deck at once, or grapple with him, as he stood, and
leap overboard.

But the elder heeded it not—took no precaution
against it. `As you have your temper,' he continued,
`we have ours. It is only yesterday, as you will remember,
that that venerable man yonder, the most placid
of human beings, was so ruffled by your rudeness
and clamour, your shocking impiety and licentiousness,
before his children, that he has been miserable, and dissatisfied
with himself, ever since. Nay, sir, you need not
smile. It is your manner, not your reasoning, that agitates
such men. Night after night, have you cleared
the cabin, or the deck, by your intemperate disputation,
many hours before the time of rest, and sent most of
us to bed, with our temples disturbed, and our heads
aching. This must be done with, I am determined;
(for I am weary of my life, and could not lose it in a
better cause, than this of reforming an uncommon
young man, and making many human creatures happy
for a little time)—I am determined to put a stop to it.
I have now done.'

The younger man stopped, overawed, amazed. He
bit his lips—his whole frame was convulsed—he shivered
from head to foot—his hands trembled, and opened,
and shut, involuntarily; he actually foamed at the
mouth. But, this was his reply.'

`Sir, I thank you. You have cut me to the heart,
but I thank you. If I deserved all that you have said,
—or—I would slay myself, or you, upon the spot. Your
manner is insulting, but I forgive you, for the sake of
your advice. I do not approve of your conduct, manly
as it is; it is ill advised. There were a thousand chances
to one, against its being of any use. It was easier for
me to kill you on the spot, than to forgive you.'

The other started back, in unaffected astonishment.
`Young man,' said he, at last, his voice trembling with
emotion—`give me your hand. Forgive me. I did not
believe you capable of this. Forgive me. I was harsh.
Forgive me.'

The company, who had been listening, but all pretending
sleep, now arose, and gathered round the
two. Harold came up, with the boy in his arms: He
measured the stranger, inch by inch, with his antagonist.

`He is small,' quoth Harold; `but how he stands.
He is scarcely larger than I—nor much older. And
yet, look at his countenance. I do not; I never could
look like him, at such a moment. How calm, and dignified,
and thoughtful. The very trembling of his voice,
this agitation of his—it is not like that of other men.
It is inward, and sorrowful—compassionate, and lonely.

There was a dead silence. The young man, whose
name, it appeared, was Bolton, turned to depart, saying,
as he went; `your lesson has been a most unkind
one. But I could brook unkindness from my childhood.
I needed it. It was well that it came from you. Had
any other dared—'

`Dared!—dared what?' said a third person.

Bolton turned. He stood before the speaker, as if
ready, at the first parting of his lips, to leap, like a
blood hound, at his throat.

The intruder aimed a blow at Bolton, which Harold
received on his arm, and instantly returned with such
effect, as to send him reeling against the benches. Bolton
turned to rebuke Harold, for his interference.

But the stranger interposed. `Have done!' he cried!
in a voice that made their very hearts stand still with
affright—`officer! call your captain?'

The captain was called.

`Sir,' said the stranger. (The British commander of
a line of battle ship, stood, at the bidding of this extraordinary
man, before him, and obeyed him)—`Sir—
you will put the first man in irons, that presumes to
strike another on board of this ship, while I am here.
What! the quarter deck of a three decker, to be made
a bear garden of!'

`Look ye,' says the captain—`look ye, my cocks;
if you must fight, why, damme, you shall go into limbo,
in pairs. Blast my eyes! if I hear any more of this,
on board of his majesty's ship, if I don't lash you down,
in couples, upon the sailor's chests, and there you shall
fight it out—you shall!—and the boatswain's mate shall
stand over you with a cat o' nine tails.'

So passed this day; and so, many successive days;
till the alighting of a bird, or the approach of a loose
weed, became an object of interest to a multitude, of
nearly one thousand persons.

But, about nine in the morning of a most heavenly
day, a squadron of white sails were seen, circling the
horizon. Signals were interchanged: and the ship, with
the customary precaution of British seamen, was cleared
for action. Night came on, without any satisfactory
communication. Rockets flew up the sky, then, and
were instantly answered, from all points of the compass.

Harold's heart beat high. He saw the preparations on
board, with intense anxiety. Was this an enemy? At
day-light, another squadron appeared, to windward,
bearing down, under a press of sail, in a most beautiful
style, athwart the wake of his majesty's 84. A part of
the first squadron was now discovered to be merchantmen,
and it was conjectured, under convoy, as they
were seen to make all sail, and crowd off in different
directions, while one noble ship ran up, as if to reconnoitre
and another hove to, and backed her topsails, in
defiance.

There was scarcely wind enough to move the ship.
Each appeared to manœuvre, for the purpose of cutting
off single vessels. It was a moment of breathless anxiety.
The stranger and the captain were seen consulting
together. Something was determined upon, instantly:
as the colours were hauled down; a new set run up;
fore, and aft; the matches lighted; and the ship stood
off, awhile, as if to fill, and run down, upon her antagonist—a
gun!'

At this moment, a terrible cry was heard. `The

child! the child!'—Harold turned—the railings were
lined with passengers. `Leopold was overboard!'

The water all around, was instantly covered with
casks, spars, furniture, hencoops, &c.—but the child
was not to be seen. An instant after, however, the man
at the helm shouted that the child was astern, buoyed
up by his dress. Harold and Bolton were both overboard,
headlong, at the cry—but the vessel—O! she
was already at an immeasurable distance!

It was some minutes before she could be put about:
and when she was, Harold was discovered, battling
with the waves, the boy upon his back, and Bolton, apparently
exhausted, holding upon a cask, that was incessantly
turning. His breath was a continual sobbing
—the ship, in returning, ran aside of him. Harold, who
was an excellent swimmer, was seen to offer him his
hand, but the other rejected it, angrily, and pointed to
the boy. The deck was crowded—it was certain death
to attempt the rescue—and yet, what mortal could resist
the upbraiding of his heart?

Another plunge! The stranger, who had not been
heard or seen since the accident, now deliberately leaped
overboard, disincumbered of his outer dress, and
equipped in a singular contrivance, by which, though it
was soon evident that he could not swim, he was kept
buoyant, till, by vehement exertion, he was just within
reach of the poor fellow, who sobbed—outstretched his
hands once more, and went down!—a few bubbles
rose, and he came up again, gasping for breath, his
hair loose on the wave; his eyes shut; and the water all
in a foam round him, with the beating of his arms.

His presence of mind never seemed to desert the
stranger. Harold was near him. He took the child
from his back, and directed him, in admiration of his
strength and activity, to pursue Bolton. Harold did,
and arose, almost out of the water, as he returned from
the plunge that he made after the drowning man, as he
was sinking for the last time. The early experience of
Harold had taught him, that there is no moment so perilous
to the sufferer, as when his preserver is just
within his reach. It is then, and then, only, that the

strength of desperation gives way, all at once. And thus
it is, that such cases so often appear miraculous—
the drowning body going down the last time, almost always,
before it is plucked forth.

Boats were run out, and rapidly approaching; for the
ship steered wide, in the fear of running some of the
poor creatures down. The foremost one approached
Harold, with his insensible burden—but the anxiety of
all, and each, had well nigh proved fatal to both; for
they all rushed to the side, and abandoned their oars,
before they were near enough; and the next swell separted
them, half a cable's length. What was to be
done? Harold himself, grew dizzy with extreme fatigue
and disappointment. He was unable to utter a
loud word—the drowning man held him so tightly
about the throat.

The boat came near again—two of the oars fortunately
drifted near him. He caught at the nearest, but
missed it, and went down—down—with a dead body in
his arms, between the calm, beautiful swell, of two enormous
waves. They thought that he never would reappear
—the sailors leant over the boat in an agony of compassion
for the brave fellow, not knowing what to do next
—but Providence was for them—a few bubbles appeared—a
darker hue in the water near them, which was
transparent to an immeasurable depth; and anon, Harold
appeared, dragging up his fellow, by his black
locks—he had disengaged himself in the depth of the
ocean, by violence, and had arisen, as from the grave.

They were soon on board—and Harold fainted. But
the stranger—where was he? Still of the same imperturbable
aspect, sitting by Harold, and chafing his temples.

The enemy—(for she was an enemy) it was now recollected,
had forborne to open her batteries, although,
at one moment, in an admirable position; and all manœuvering
and seamanship were sacrificed for awhile, by
the Briton, for the safety of a child.'

What was the reason? It was now discovered; for
she stood toward the ship again, with every man at
quarters—glorious! she too, with her glasses, had seen

the struggle in the water; and although the first broad,
side might send a multitude, shattered and bloody, before
the throne of heaven, yet she withheld her thunderbolts,
lest she might hurt the innocent, and inoffensive!
—glorious!

Some more hours were consumed in manœuvering.
The two squadrons had now passed entirely out of
sight. There was a mortal stillness on board. The bulwarks
were stuffed. The ladies and children ordered
midships—and there was nothing but the brief orders
of the sailing master, to interrupt the awful silence.
The enemy ran nearly by! what! was she afraid? After
all this preparation, would'nt she fight?—Some ashy
faces, and the faces too, of some brave men, looked
more cheerful, nevertheless, as she did pass—but—

What a manœuvre! She was almost upon them, from
the horizon—completely trimmed, and manned—like an
apparition! There was a general burst of astonishment,
at the beauty and celerity of the movement.

And then, the broadside opened! The waters were
all in a foam about the Hesiod, (the name of the Briton.)
Harold's heart swelled almost to bursting. He
was in an agony of delight and terrour. He was shaken
almost to dissolution. The heavens and the earth; the
sky and the water, were all thundering together. The
two ships lay yard arm, and yard arm, at last, in a whirlwind
of smoke and flame. The shrieks of the women and
children, and of the wounded, were altogether deafening.
A bugle rang! It was for the boarders. But lo!
they were anticipated. Harold had already driven his
battle axe through and through a young sailor, and was
now wrestling with an officer, upon the bowsprit—both
fell—their comrades slipped in their gore, and tumbled
over them—their hands were grappled about each
other's throats—Harold was undermost—`mercy! mercy!'
cried a female voice; and Harold was abandoned.
His foe leaped over him, and left him, bleeding, and
fainting, and suspended in the torn rigging, that lay
over the side, and dragged in the discoloured water,
unconcious of his situation, his peril, or his escape.

The thunder and the earthquake still raged above

him—he was almost suffocated with smoke and spray
—but he was awakened by a soft hand reached down,
and stealing over his wounded head. A strange delirium,
delicious, and intoxicating, followed the touch.
He caught the hand, and pressed it madly and passionately,
to his mouth; bloody as it was—wildly imagining
that it was the hand of Loena, herself. `Yes! yes!'
said his heart—`I am dying, dying; but what of that?
Here is she, my beloved, to weep for me! He lifted his
eyes, and had just sense enough to discover a face, and
to shriek, as if his heart had been pierced by a thousand
knives at the same instant!

She was wounded the next moment, and fell by his
side—the hot blood ran through the scuppers, and
smoked upon the water about them, in red bubbles. By
a supernatural effort, Harold arose, took up the wounded
woman in his arms—regained the bend—slipped,
staggered, and fell, amid a heap of wounded and shattered
human beings—sobbing out faint and inarticulate
cries for assistance—unheard—unperceived!