CHAPTER SIXTY THREE.

As soon as day dawned every eye was bent upon the horizon. Not a point of the whole circle that was not scanned with the minutest earnestness by one and all. Round and round they turned, sweeping the surface with anxious glances, and raising themselves as high as they could in order to command the most distant view.

But all ended in disappointment. No sail was in sight; nothing that had life or motion; not even fish or fowl broke the monotony of that vast surface of sleeping water.

There were no signs of the gig: she must have rowed off in some different direction; no signs either of the wreck, the breeze had carried us far from it; but even had we remained near, there might have been seen no traces of it. All had long since gone to the bottom of the sea.

The sun rose higher and higher, and at noon stood right over our heads. We had no protection from his beams—they were almost hot enough to blister us.

The calm continued—there was not enough motion in the air to have wafted a feather, and the raft lay as still as if it had been aground. It only moved, when those who were on it passed from place to place.

There was not much changing about. There was no great room for it. There were in all thirty-four of us, and the bodies of the men—some sitting and others lying—covered nearly the whole space. There was no reason for moving about. Most were sullen and despondent, and kept the places, they had first taken, without the energy to stir out of them. Others were of lighter heart, or, under the influence of the rum which they drank freely, were more noisy. Now and then there was wrangling among them.

The sea was frequently scanned, round and round, to the very borders of the sky.

This duty was neither forgotten nor overlooked. There was always some one rising to his feet and gazing outward, but only to return to his former position, with that disheartening look that proclaimed how vain his reconnoissance had been. Indeed, silence itself was a sufficient reply. No one would have discovered a sail, without making instant announcement of it.

At noon we were all suffering from thirst; they who had been regaling themselves with rum worse than any—for this is the sure result.

Water was served out from the cask—in equal quantity to each. It was agreed that all should share alike, both of the water and the bread—and of the former it was resolved that each should receive a pint a day. In any other situation the allowance might have been sufficient, and existence might be supported upon it; but under that broiling sun, that seemed to dry up the very blood in our veins, our thirst became almost insupportable, and the pint of water could be gulped down without affording the slightest relief. I am certain that half a gallon would scarce have sufficed to quench my thirst. What rendered the pint of water still more insufficient was, that it was no longer cool water. The sun, basking down upon the cask that lay only half covered, had heated the staves—and, consequently, the water within—to such a degree, that the latter tasted as if half-way towards boiling. It may have checked the progress of thirst, but it did not alleviate the pain.

The water might have been kept cooler, by throwing the idle sail over the cask; but even this trifling precaution was not adopted.

The men were gradually giving away to despair—the torpor of despondency was fast laying hold upon them, and under this influence no one seemed to possess energy enough for any precaution—however easy it might have been.

As to the serving out of the food, that occupied only one act. To be put upon daily allowance out of such a store was altogether out of the question. A simple partition was all that was required, and the bag of biscuit was emptied out and its contents equally divided around. There proved to be two biscuits apiece, with a small surplus, and for this last the crew held a "raffle"—each time a single biscuit forming the prize. For these prizes the men contended with as much eagerness, as if there had been large sums of money staked on the result; and, indeed, it would have been a large sum that would have purchased one of those precious morsels of bread.

The "raffling," combined with the "rum"—which was now also meted out— produced for some time a noisy excitement. But this was soon over; and the sullen silence of despondency again ruled.

Some, already ravenous with hunger and reckless of consequences, ate their two biscuits at once—while others, endowed with greater prudence or stronger powers of endurance, only gnawed a small portion, and kept the rest towards a future and more pressing necessity.

Thus passed the time till near sunset, with no event to cheer us—no new prospect to beget a hope.

When near sunset, however, a grand excitement was produced, and all the sweet joys of hope were again felt.

One of the men who had arisen to his feet, and was gazing over the sea, suddenly cried out:—

"A sail—a sail!"

It would be impossible to describe the wild joy that these words produced—men leaped to their feet, vociferating glad huzzas as they repeated the words "a sail, a sail." Some pulled off their hats and waved them in the air—some leaped and danced about as though frantic, and even the most despairing behaved as if suddenly called to a new life.

I have said it would be impossible to picture that scene; but still more impossible to describe the contrast which, but the moment after, might have been witnessed upon the raft, when it was ascertained that the cry was a false alarm. No sail was in sight—there had been none—nothing could be seen of ship or sail over the wide circle of the ocean—nothing moved upon the glass-like face of that vast mirror.

A false alarm, entirely without foundation. Why the man had uttered it was soon explained. The wild expressions that were pouring from his lips, with the grotesque gestures he was making with his arms proved that he was mad!



CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR.

Yes, the man was mad. The awful occurrences of the preceding night had deprived him of his reason, and he was now a raving maniac.

Some cried out to throw him into the sea. No one opposed this counsel. It would have been carried into execution—for several were prepared to lay hold of him when the maniac, apparently well aware of their intention, scrambled back into his former position; and, cowering down, remained silent and scared-like. It was not probable he would harm any one—he was left alone.

The excitement of this incident soon passed away, and the gloomy looks returned—if possible, gloomier than before, for it is ever so after hopes have been raised that terminate in disappointment.

So passed the evening and a portion of the night.

At the same hour as upon the preceding night—almost the same minute— the breeze again sprung up. It could be of little service—since there was no chance of our being carried by it to land—but it was cool and refreshing after the intense torrid heat we had been all day enduring.

Some were for spreading the sail; others saw no use in it. "What good can it do?" inquired these. "It may carry us a score of miles hence, or perhaps twice that. What then? It won't bring us in sight of land—nor a ship neither. We're as likely to see one by lying still. What's the use of moving about? If we haven't the wherewith to eat and must make a die of it, we may as well die here as a score of knots farther to leeward. Set your sail if you will—we won't either hinder or help."

Such language was used by the despairing part of the crew.

There were those who thought that by sailing, we should be more likely to fall in with a vessel. They thought they could not be worse, and might drift to a better place, where ships were more frequent—though they acknowledged that there were equal chances of their going away out of the track.

The truth is, that not one knew within hundreds of miles of where we were, and to sail in any course would have been mere guess-work.

By men in misery, however, motion is always preferred to rest; and the knowledge that you are going, and going forward, produces a soothing influence on the spirits. It begets a hope that you will come in sight of something that may aid you; and these hopes, however ill-founded, enable you to pass the time more lightly. On the contrary, by remaining in one fixed place, for a like period of time, you fret and chafe much more under the uncertainty.

With this feeling upon them, most of the men were in favour of bending the sail, and it was accordingly bent.

The night before it had been held aloft by several of the men—as the only object then had been to get the raft beyond reach of the swimmers. When that end was accomplished, the sail had been allowed to drop, and the raft had drifted a good distance without it.

To-night, however, a mast was raised—or rather, a pair of them— consisting of oars and handspikes spliced together—and between the two the canvas was extended, without yard, gaff, or boom. There was no design to manoeuvre the sail. It was just spread like a blanket, transversely to the raft, and left for the breeze to blow upon it as it listed. When this was done the raft was left to its own guidance, and, of course, drifted to leeward as fast as it could make way—apparently at the rate of three or four knots an hour.

The men once more resumed their recumbent positions, and all remained silent. Some fell asleep, and snored as though they were happy! Others slept, but their dream-talking told of troubled visions—recalling, maybe, dark scenes of guilt. A few seemed to lie awake all the live-long night—at intervals tossing about, as though kept on the alert by thirst, hunger, or the apprehension of approaching death.

Brace and I sat close together. We still occupied the slight raft he had made—as there was but little room upon the other—and this one, now forming part of the whole structure, was as good a position as we could have chosen—in fact the best, as the sequel proved.

There was a sail upon it—the jib or flying jib, I know not which—and a piece of old tarpauling; and these, spread over the planks, kept them together, and gave us a softer bed to recline upon.

We conversed together at times, though not often. Now and then the brave sailor had endeavoured to cheer me by holding out hopes—but so hopeless had our situation now become that he at length desisted. He felt that it would be only mockery to hold out the slightest prospect of our deliverance. He, too—the bravest of all that blind—was fast surrendering himself to despair.

The breeze died away before daybreak, just as on the previous night—and another morning came, but showed no sail on all that boundless sea.

Another hot sun rose and circled overhead through the same cloudless heaven, and set red and fiery as ever.

There passed another night, and once more the wind carried us through the water; and then several other days and nights—I ceased to count them—came and went with almost the same monotonous routine, varied only by bickerings among the men—sometimes most fiendish quarrels, in which knives were drawn and used almost with fatal effect.

Strange time for disagreement and deadly conflict!

Even wild animals—the fiercest beasts of prey—when under the influence of a common danger will yield up the ferocity of their nature. Not so these wicked men—their vile passions in this dread hour seemed only to become stronger and more malignant!

Their quarrels were about the merest trifles—the serving out of the water, the rum, the supposition of some one that he was not getting fair play in his allowance—but so frequent had they become, that they themselves grew to be a monotony. Every hour a fierce brawl disturbed the deep repose and otherwise breathless silence that characterised the intervals between.

If these incidents had grown monotonous and no longer failed to interest me, there was one upon the eve of occurring that was well calculated to produce within me an interest of the most powerful kind—calculated to stir my soul to its very utmost emotion.

I have said that this incident was on the eve of occurring—it was a hideous purpose already matured, though kept secret from my companion and myself. Neither Brace nor I had the slightest suspicion of it until the hour in which it was openly declared.



CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE.

It was probably on the sixth day after parting from the wreck—though I am not certain about the day—that the horrid design reached its development. It had been hatching for a while before, and upon that day came to a crisis.

It was now several days since food had been tasted by any one—the two biscuits each had been long since eaten—most of them at the moment of being given out. Of course every one upon the raft was suffering the pangs of hunger, and had been enduring them until the appetite had reached the extremity of painfulness.

Some looked emaciated, with eyes deeply sunken, and cheeks bony and hollow. Others, strange to say, had a fat, bloated appearance; but this must have arisen from swelling, or some unnatural cause—it could not be that famine had given them flesh. All—one and all—had that peculiar expression about the eyes, and around the mouth, that may be noticed in the visage of a hungry dog, or still more perceptibly in a half-starved wolf.

About this period there seemed to be some secret intelligence among them—not all of them—but among those who acted as leaders—for even in their reduced condition, there were those of stronger body and more energetic spirit, who maintained a sort of leadership over the rest. What this intelligence was I could not tell, nor indeed, should I have taken notice of the indications of its existence, had it not been for what occurred afterwards. I observed them now and then whispering to one another; as they did so casting side-glances towards Brace and myself. At other times I caught now one, and now another, gazing upon me, and with a wild wolfish look, that rendered me, though I could not tell why, singularly uneasy. I noticed that they appeared as if they did not like to be detected while thus looking at me; and ever as I returned their glances they suddenly lowered their eyes or averted their faces. They then appeared as men who have been detected in some mean or guilty action.

As it appeared to me that they looked in a similar manner at my companion, and at one another as well, I fancied that the strange expression that had struck me must be one characteristic of extreme hunger, and I thought no more about it.

On the following day, however, I observed that the whispering among them increased; and was accompanied with a greater variety of gesticulation and excitement.

Brace also noticed it, and guessed better than I what all this freemasonry meant—at least he was nearer the truth, for he was still ignorant of the full purpose of those ruffian conspirators.

He whispered to me what he supposed they were after—with the design of breaking the terrible truth to me as gently as possible. But I had now better than half divined it, and his communication did not startle me.

"Some one got to die, lad. I s'pose they're talkin' o' castin' lots who it'll be—well, we must take our chance along with the rest."

Just as Brace had finished his speech one of the men rose up upon the raft; and, calling the attention of the others, begged to make a proposal to them.

The speech by which he introduced his proposal was brief, indeed, and to the point. In fact, he came to the proposition almost at once, which was simply—that one of the party must die to save the rest—that they had still water—but no food; and all must perish unless they could eat—that they could not eat unless—

But I cannot repeat the dread arguments which he made use of, brief though they were—for his speech was short, and, having delivered it, he sat down again.

There was a short pause, and then another rose and addressed the crowd. This man coincided in the views of him who had spoken, and added to the proposal a suggestion for carrying it out—that was, that the one who was to die should be chosen by lot. This, of course, both Brace and myself expected. It was not likely that any one was going to volunteer.

What was my terror, and the anger and alarm of my companion, when one of the strongest and most brutal of the whole crew—the ruffian Le Gros— rose up, and in a loud and serious tone, not only objected to drawing lots, but proposed me for the victim!

Brace sprang instantly to his feet, and uttered a cry of indignation. It was expected that this cry would have been echoed by the others; and with almost any other band of men upon the face of the earth or the face of the ocean, such would have been the reception of the foul proposal.

But both my companion and I soon perceived, with dismay, that there came no such echo from that ruffian crew. On the contrary, several backed the proposal itself, and in such majority—I might almost say unanimity, that it was plain that most of the men who spoke had already predetermined the case. It was evident, from their prompt acquiescence, that they had been prepared for it; and this accounted for that mysterious whispering that had been carried on during the preceding day. Some few, evidently, had not been in the secret; but these were weak individuals, whose opposition would not have been regarded, and who, indeed, appeared ready enough to chime in with the majority.

The French bully went on to justify his proposition by argument. We were not all equal, he said—there were able seamen—and common sailors—and I was but a boy. Why should I have a chance like the rest? It was preposterous.

Brace opposed his arguments—appealed to the crew—to their sense of justice and fair play—let lots be cast, said he, and let him take his chance with the rest—that was the only fair and honest mode—the only way worthy of men.

Bah! these were not men. One and all were but too glad to grasp at any means that would deliver them from the perilous raffle. The sophistic arguments of Le Gros satisfied them. The infamous motion prevailed. It was decreed that I should die!



CHAPTER SIXTY SIX.

Yes—it was decreed that I should die.

The time and the mode alone remained to be determined; but these points were soon settled. For the former it was to be then—instantly—and as to the mode, I was to be bled to death!

These resolves were made with a despatch that allowed no time for reflection—scarcely time for speech or protestation. The ferocious wolves were eager for their prey.

It was their determination to act promptly to the time; for, without further hesitation, half-a-dozen of the most forward in the business advanced towards me—evidently with the intent to put their design into execution!

And, beyond a doubt, they would have done it—had I been alone and unprotected—beyond a doubt they would have killed and eaten me! But I was not alone—I was not without a protector. As the fierce cannibals advanced, Brace sprang between them and me, and drawing his clasp-knife, threatened to cut down the first who should lay a finger upon me.

"Off!" cried he, "off, you cowardly swabs! Lay your hand upon the lad, and I'll make mince-meat o' ye. He may be the first to be eaten, but he arn't the first that'll die for it—there's more than one o' ye'll have to kick the bucket afore he does. Blowed if thar arn't! So now ye cowardly hounds! come on if you dare."

The dastards, cowed by the intrepid bearing of Brace, halted in their advance and hung back—though no one of them ventured a reply. They seemed to have been taken by surprise; for although they knew that Brace opposed the design, they had no idea he would attempt to struggle against the whole crew. Surprise, therefore, held them back, mingled with some little fear—for the determined attitude which Brace had taken, and the shining blade of his knife, promised death to some of them; and, as each feared it might be himself, no one desired to be the foremost.

I had thrown myself alongside my brave protector, resolving to do battle and die by his side—though not much could my puny arm have effected against the host of strong ferocious men who assailed us. Still it would be better to die thus, than to be butchered in cold blood; and under this belief I nerved myself for the encounter.

At this crisis a change appeared to take place in the attitude of my companion: some new thought had struck him; and, waving his hand in a peculiar manner—which signified to our antagonists that he had some proposal to make—he succeeded in obtaining silence. He then addressed them as follows:—"Comrades! arn't it too bad there should be quarrelling atween us at such a time as this, when we're all in trouble alike?"

Brace's late tone of defiance had changed to one of half entreaty, and it was evident he was about to propose some compromise. Indeed, it would have been madness in him to have carried the conflict farther, as it could only have resulted in the death of us both.

"Comrades!" he continued, "it's a dreadful thing to die, but I know that some one must be made a sacrifice for the rest, and that are better than we should all go. Ye must know then when this thing happens it be the usual way to draw lots about it."

"We shan't have it that way!" cried one, adding to his response the emphasis of an oath.

"Well, then," continued Brace, without losing his pacific demeanour, "since you're agreed that it shan't be that way, and that the boy must be the first, and since you're all agreed to it, it's no use o' me standin' in the way. I agree to it wi' the rest."

I was startled at the words, and involuntarily turned my eyes upon the face of the speaker. Was he serious? was he really about to give me up? to surrender me into the hands of those ruthless men?

He took no notice of me; and his unflinching attitude, and glance still bent in the same direction, told me that he had not yet done speaking.

"But," said he after pause, "with these conditions."

"What conditions?" asked several, interrupting him.

"Why only this," replied Brace, "that the boy be let live till the morning. I only ask for him till the sun rises; and then if there be no sail in sight, ye can do as ye please. It's only fair the lad should have a chance for his life; and if you don't agree to give him this chance," continued the speaker, once more placing himself in a determined attitude, "if you don't, then all I've got to say is, that I'll fight for the lad as long as I can stand over him, and if he be first ate he won't be first killed—that I can promise ye. Now?"

Brace's speech produced the desired effect. His auditory, though reluctantly, agreed to the proposal. Even those heartless fiends could not help acknowledging that it was no more than fair; but, perhaps, the determined and resolute bearing of my protector—as he stood, drawn up and ready, with that keen blade shining in his strong, firm grasp—had more influence upon their decision than any feeling of fair play.

Whether or not, the reprieve was granted; and those who had been menacing my life drew back—though still muttering their discontent—and shrunk once more into their places.



CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN.

I can ill describe the emotions that agitated my bosom. Though delivered from the terror of immediate death, there was nothing in the respite to give me any feeling of joy. It would be only a short procrastination of my doom, for certainly in the morning I must die. The slender chances of our seeing a sail were scarce worth contemplating; and I derived no consolation by dwelling upon such a contingency.

My fate, therefore, I looked upon as sealed. My protector could not save me. He had done the utmost in his power, in procuring the reprieve that was to give me this slight chance for my life. If it failed, he would undoubtedly have to keep his word and surrender me up.

I felt as the condemned criminal whose hour of execution has been fixed, and who knows it—with perhaps, only the difference that I could look forward to the event with a clear conscience. I felt not as a criminal, but a victim—a martyr among ruffians.

Of course I thought not of sleep—all sleep was banished from my eyelids. With such a prospect before me how could I sleep? Sadly at that crisis did I think of home, of parents, and kindred. Bitterly did I repent that I ever ran away to sea!

Alas! like many others who have acted disobediently and rashly—my experience had been too dearly purchased—my repentance came too late.

To-morrow by sunrise must I die; and oh! such a dreadful doom! My fate would never be known; for, though I was made a sacrifice, it was not likely that my executioners would long survive me. The chances that any of them would ever reach land were slight indeed; and, even if they should, it was not likely they would ever divulge that secret. I should never more be heard of; neither friends or kindred would ever know my sad fate, and it would be better that they should not. Oh! it was a dreadful doom!

Suffering under such reflections, I lay stretched along the plank; my protector was still by my side—so near that our shoulders touched, and our heads were close together—I could have heard anything he might have said, though uttered only in a whisper; but for a long time he did not address a word to me. He appeared to be busied with his own thoughts— as if buried in some deep cogitation—and did not desire to be spoken to. Noticing this, I too remained silent.

The night came down and promised to be dark, most of the preceding nights had been very clear, as there had been moonlight and scarce a cloud in the sky for weeks before. On this day, however, and particularly towards the close of it, black clouds had shown themselves above the horizon, and although the sea was still under a calm, it appeared as if some change was at hand.

After the sun had set, these clouds rose higher and higher—until a black pall of them covered the whole firmament, completely shrouding the moon, and, not only hiding her from our eyes, but hindering her beams from casting their light over the sea.

The surface of the water, instead of glittering around us, as it had done upon preceding nights, was now of a grey, gloomy complexion—for it reflected the colour of the clouds that hung over it. Both wore fit emblems of my own sad spirit.

Almost mechanically I remarked to my companion this change in the heavens, and spoke about the darkness of the night.

"So much the better, lad," was his laconic reply, and he again relapsed in silence, as if he did not desire to be led into conversation.

I lay for awhile pondering upon his reply. How was it better?—what signified the darkness?—what advantage could be gained by that? A dark night could not bring ships upon the sea; nor could it save me from the doom that had been decreed. The sun would rise all the same; and at his rising I must die! The darkness could not avail me! What could he mean?

I pondered a long while upon his answer, but could not make out its signification. Had he intended it as a phrase of encouragement— something to hold out a hope to me—something to cheer me? for indefinitely it had this effect—or was the answer given mechanically and without thought?

The former I dared not hope. Since the moment in which my respite had been granted, he had not spoken nor offered a word of hope, for certain was I that he had none to offer. What then meant he by the words he had just uttered—"So much the better, lad?"

I would at length have asked him; but, just as I had made up my mind to do so, I perceived that he was twisting himself about, and before I could speak to him, he had turned his head away—so that he could no longer have heard me in a whisper. Not desirous that others should overhear the question I was about to put to him, I remained silent and waited for a better opportunity.



CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT.

It had now grown extremely dark—so much so that I could scarce distinguish the form of my companion, though he was close by me—and the great raft itself with the bodies reclining upon it, was only distinguishable as a shapeless black mass. I could perceive the spread sail better than anything else, as this was of a whitish colour and stood up outlined against the gloomy grey of the sky.

But, dark as it was, I noticed that Brace on turning away from me had his knife clasped in his hand, with the blade still open and ready for use! What could he intend with this?

All at once it occurred to me that he suspected something—that he was apprehensive that the ruffians might not desire to wait for the morning as agreed—but might attempt to carry out their purpose in the night; and under this suspicion he had placed himself between them and me— determined to keep guard over me. The position he had taken gave colour to this supposition, and the attitude he was in almost confirmed it.

As I have before stated, Brace and I still occupied the floating planks which we had bound together, and these were attached to the raft at what might be called its stern—that is, when the raft moved through the water by means of sail, our position was behind, and in the wake. Now, as my companion had turned himself, he lay with his head towards the raft, and, as I thought, in a half-crouching attitude—though the pitchy darkness prevented me from being sure of this. At all events he was so placed, that any one attempting to approach me must first pass over his body; and, therefore, did I believe—seeing the knife in his grasp—that his object was to guard me.

I have said that it had now grown extremely dark; but in addition to this I perceived that the breeze had arisen—just about the same hour as on other nights. This night, however, it was much fresher than before— so fresh that the raft swept briskly along—making a rushing noise in the water, and leaving a foamy track behind her.

Lulled into a kind of stupor, I lay for some time listening to this noise; and was only aroused from my reverie by observing that the sound of the water became all at once less loud and distinct—as though the raft was moving more gently through the sea—then I ceased to hear it altogether!

Surely, thought I, the sail has come down, and the raft is no longer in motion.

I lay for a while listening attentively; to my surprise I could still distinguish the sound of rushing water; but it now appeared as if at some distance, and every moment getting further away!

I was about to spring up and seek an explanation of this strange phenomenon, when a wild cry came pealing across the water, followed by a confused noise of loud voices.

"We are saved!" thought I, "some ship is near!" and I actually shouted these words, as I sprang up from my recumbent attitude.

"Yes," replied a voice, which I knew to be that of Brace, "we're saved from them anyhow—yonder they go, the cowardly swabs! they don't catch us, while this breeze lasts—that they don't."

To my astonishment I now perceived that Brace and I were alone; and, far in the shadowy darkness, I could just make out the white sail of the raft still scudding away before the breeze!

There was no mystery about it. Brace had cut the ropes that had bound our planks to the raft, and had silently permitted them to drop astern. That was what he had been doing with his knife!

Of course the wind, acting upon the sail, had soon carried the great raft far out of reach, and it was now several hundred yards to leeward of us. The darkness had prevented any of the crew from noting what was passing; but they had at length discovered our escape, as their wild shouts and angry vociferations testified. We could hear them calling us by name, at the same time uttering threats and cries of disappointed rage.

"Don't fear them any more," coolly remarked my companion, "can't reach us with that slow craft—we can row faster than they can swim. But best make sure, however—the farther we're from 'em the better—lay hold, lad! here's an oar for you—pull with all your might!"

I took the oar as my companion directed, and commenced rowing. I saw that Brace had another oar—which he had managed to bring away from the raft—and under the two blades our little craft was propelled rapidly through the water. Of course we rowed right into the wind's eye—for by so doing we took the opposite direction to that in which the crew was carried.

For a long time we continued to hear their wild, hoarse cries behind us; but the voices grew fainter and fainter, as the raft drifted to leeward; and at length we could hear them no more.

We rowed on till morning light; and then resting from our toil, we stood up, and scanned the surface of the sea.

There was no sail in sight—no object of any kind.

The raft had disappeared behind the convex swell of the water;—we were alone upon the ocean!

————————————————————————————————————

Reader! I might describe other scenes of peril, through which my brave companion and I passed, before that joyful hour, when our eyes rested upon the white sails of a ship—a strong, fine ship that lifted us from the bosom of the ocean, and carried us once more to land—ay, even to our native land. I shall not weary you with the details. Suffice it to say, that we were rescued—else how could I be living to tell the tale?

Yes—I still live, and so does my companion—both of us still follow the sea, but no longer under the rule of an arbitrary tyrant such as the captain of the Pandora. No! we are both captains ourselves—I of an East Indiaman; and Ben the master—and part owner, too—of a fine barque in the African trade—a barque quite equal to the Pandora.

But not that African trade—no. My old friend is an honest dealer. His merchandise is not black men, but yellow gold-dust, white ivory, palm-oil, and ostrich plumes; and after each "trip" to the African coast, Ben—as I have been given to understand—makes a "trip" to the Bank of England, and there deposits a very considerable sum of money. I rejoice in his prosperity, and I have no doubt that you, reader, will do the same.

We are not ignorant of the fate of the slaver's crew. Not one of them, either those in the gig or on the raft, ever again saw the shore. They perished upon the face of the wide ocean—miserably perished, without hand to help or eye to weep over them. No eye beheld them but that of the Omnipotent—no hand but His was near; and it was near—for it was the hand of God that avenged their victims!

THE END.