No wonder, as he felt the breeze blowing on his cheek, that he looked towards the setting sun, to ascertain in what direction the raft was being borne. No wonder that his anxious glance became changed to a look of satisfaction when he perceived that they were moving eastward.

"To the east'ard it are, sure enough," said he, "and that be curious too. 'T an't often I've see'd the wind blow from the westward in these latitudes. Only another catspaw in the middle o' the calm. 'T won't last long; though it won't matter, so long's it don't turn and blow us t'other way."

The expressed wish not to be blown "t'other way" needed no explanation. William understood what that meant. The fearful scene of the preceding day was fresh in his memory. That scene, where half a score of fiend-like monsters, threatening his life, were kept at bay by one heroic man,—that was a tableau too terrible to be soon forgotten.

Nor had he forgotten it, even for a moment. Perhaps, during that brief conflict with the sharks, the nearer danger may have driven it for an interval out of his mind; but that over, the dread remembrance returned again; and every now and then,—even while engaged in the varied labours that had occupied them throughout the day,—in a sort of waking dream he had recalled that fearful vision. Often—every few minutes in fact—had his eyes been turned involuntarily towards the west,—where, instead of looking hopefully for a ship, his anxious glance betrayed a fear that any dark object might be seen in that direction.

On finishing their task, both were sufficiently fatigued,—the strong sailor as well as his feebler companion. The former still kept his feet, anxiously scanning the horizon; while the latter laid himself along the bare boards of the raft.

"Little Will'm," said the sailor, looking down at the boy, and speaking in gentle tones, "you'd better spread the sail under ye, and get some sleep. There be no use in both o' us keeping awake. I'll watch till it gets dark, an' then I'll join you. Go to sleep, lad! go to sleep!"

William was too wearied to make objection. Drawing the skirt of the sail over the raft, he lay down upon it, and found sleep almost as soon is he had composed himself into the attitude to enjoy it.

The sailor remained standing erect; now sweeping the horizon with his glance, now bending his eye restlessly upon the water as it rippled along the edge of the raft, and again returning to that distant scrutiny,—so oft repeated, so oft unrewarded.

Thus occupied, he passed the interval of twilight,—short in these latitudes; nor did he terminate his vigil until darkness had descended upon the deep.

It promised to be a dark, moonless night. Only a few feebly gleaming stars, thinly scattered over the firmament, enabled him to distinguish the canopy of the sky from the waste of waters that surrounded him. Even a ship under full spread of canvas could not have been seen, though passing at a cable's length from the raft.

It was idle to continue the dreary vigil; and having arrived at this conviction, the sailor stretched himself alongside his slumbering companion, and, like the latter, was soon relieved from his long-protracted anxiety by the sweet oblivion of sleep.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

THE MYSTERIOUS VOICE.

For several hours both remained wrapped in slumber, oblivious of the perils through which they had passed,—equally unconscious of the dangers that surrounded and still lay before them.

What a picture was there,—with no human eye to behold it! Two human forms, a sailor and a sailor-boy, lying side by side upon a raft scarce twice the length of their own bodies, in the midst of a vast ocean, landless and limitless as infinity itself both softly and soundly asleep,—as if reposing upon the pillow of some secure couch, with the firm earth beneath and a friendly roof extended over them! Ah, it was a striking tableau, that frail craft with its sleeping crew,—such a spectacle as is seldom seen by human eye!

It was fortunate that for many hours they continued to enjoy the sweet unconsciousness of sleep,—if such may be termed enjoyment. It was long after midnight before either awoke: for there was nothing to awake them. The breeze had kept gentle, and constant in the same quarter; and the slight noise made by the water, as it went "swishing" along the edge of the raft, instead of rousing them acted rather as a lullaby to their rest. The boy awoke first. He had been longer asleep; and his nervous system, refreshed and restored to its normal condition, had become more keenly sensitive to outward impressions. Some big, cold rain-drops falling upon his face had recalled him to wakefulness.

Was it spray tossed up by the spars ploughing through the water?

No. It was rain from the clouds. The canopy overhead was black as ink; but while the lad was scrutinising it, a gleam of lightning suddenly illumined both sea and sky, and then all was dark as before.

Little William would have restored his cheek to its sail-cloth pillow and gone to sleep again. He was not dismayed by the silent lightning,— for it was that sort that had flickered over the sky. No more did he mind the threatening rainclouds. His shirt had been soaked too often, by showers from the sky and spray from the sea, for him to have any dread of a ducking.

It was not that,—neither the presence of the lightning nor the prospect of the rain,—that kept him awake; but something he had heard,—or fancied he had heard,—something that not only restrained him from returning to repose, but inspired him with a fear that robbed him of an inclination to go to sleep again.

What was it he had heard or fancied? A noise,—a voice!

Was it the scream of the sea-mew, the shriek of the frigate-bird, or the hoarse note of the nelly?

None of these. The boy-sailor was acquainted with the cries of all three, and of many other sea-birds besides. It was not the call of a bird that had fallen so unexpectedly on his ear, but a note of far different intonation. It more resembled a voice,—a human voice,—the voice of a child! Not of a very young child,—an infant,—but more like that of a girl of eight or ten years of age!

Nor was it a cry of distress, though uttered in a melancholy tone. It seemed to the ear of the lad—freshly awakened from his sleep—like words spoken in conversation.

But it could not be what he had taken it for! Improbable,—impossible! He had been deluded by a fancy; or it might be the mutterings of some ocean bird with whose note he was unacquainted.

Should he awake his companion and tell him of it? A pity, if it should prove to be nothing, or only the chattering of a sea-gull. His brave protector had need of rest. Ben would not be angry to be awaked; but the sailor would be sure to laugh at him if he were to say he had heard a little girl talking at that time of night in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Perhaps Ben might say it was a mermaid, and mock him in that sort of style?

No: he would not run the risk of being ridiculed, even by his best of friends. Better let the thing pass, and say nothing about it.

Little William had arrived at this resolution, and had more than half determined to treat the sound he had heard as an aurical delusion. He had even replaced his cheek upon the sail-cloth pillow, when the very same sound again fill upon his ear,—this time more distinctly heard, as if either the utterance had been clearer or the being that made it was nearer!

If it was not the voice of a girl,—a very young girl,—then the boy-sailor had never listened to the prattling of his younger sister, or the conversation of his little female playmates. If it was a young mermaid, then most assuredly could mermaids talk: for the sound was exactly like a string or series of words uttered in conversation!

Ben must be aroused from his slumber. It could not be an illusion. Either a talking mermaid, or a little girl, was within earshot of the raft.

There was no help for it: Ben must be aroused.

"Ben! Ben!"

"Ho—hah—ow—aw—what's the row?—seven bells, I bean't on the dog-watch. Hi, hi, oh! it's you, little Will'm. What is't, lad?"

"Ben, I hear something."

"Hear somethin'! Well, what o' that, boy? Theer 's allers somethin' to be heerd: even here, in the middle o' the Atlantic. Ah! boy, I was dreamin' a nice dream when ye woke me. I thought I war back on the ole frigate. 'T wa'nt so nice, eyther, for I thought the bos'n war roustin' me up for my watch on deck. Anyhow, would a been better than this watch here. Heerd something ye say? What d'ye mean, little Will'm?"

"I heard a voice, Ben. I think it was a voice."

"Voice—o' a human, do ye mean?"

"It sounded like that of a little girl."

"Voice o' a little girl! Shiver my timbers, lad, you're goin' demented! Put yer face close to mine. Let me see ye, boy! Are ye in yer senses, Will'm?"

"I am, Ben. I'm sure I heard what I've said. Twice I heard it. The first time I wasn't sure; but just now I heard it again, and if—"

"If there hadn't been gulls, an' boobies, an' Mother Carey's chickens, as squeals and chitters just like little childer, I'd a been puzzled at what ye be a tellin' me; but as I knows there be all o' these creators in the middle o' the broad ocean,—and mermaids too, I dare say,—then, ye see, little Will'm, I must disbelieve that ye heard anything more than the voice of—a man, by—!"

As the sailor terminated his speech with this terrible emphasis, he started into an upright attitude, and listened with all his ears for another utterance of that harsh monotone that, borne upon the breeze and rising above the "sough" of the disturbed water, could easily be distinguished as the voice of a man.

"We're lost, Will'm!" cried he, without waiting for a repetition of the sound; "we're lost. It's the voice of Le Gros. The big raft is a bearin' down upon us wi' them bloodthirsty cannibals we thought we'd got clear o'. It's no use tryin' to escape. Make up your mind to it, lad; we've got to die! we've got to die!"



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

OTHER WAIFS.

Had it been daylight, instead of a very dark night, Ben Brace and his youthful comrade would have been less alarmed by the voices that came up the wind. Daylight would have discovered to them an object, or rather collection of objects, which, instead of repelling, would have attracted them nearer.

It was not the great raft that was drifting to leeward, nor was it the voice of Le Gros or any of his wicked companions, that had been heard; though, in the excitement of their fears, that was the first thought of the two castaways.

Could their eyes have penetrated the deep obscurity that shrouded the sea, they would have beheld a number of objects, like themselves, adrift upon the water, and like them, at the mercy of the winds and waves. They would have seen pieces of timber, black and charred with fire; fragments of broken spars, with sails and cordage attached and trailing after them; here and there a cask or barrel, sunk to the level of the surface by the weight of its contents; pieces of packing-cases, torn asunder as if by some terrible explosion; cabin-chairs, coops, oars, handspikes, and other implements of the mariner's calling,—all bobbing about on the bosom of the blue deep, and carried hither and thither by the arbitrary oscillations of the breeze.

These various objects were not all huddled up together, but scattered unequally over a space of more than a square mile in extent. Had it been daylight, so that the sailor could have seen them, as they appeared mottling the bright surface of the sea, he would have experienced no difficulty in determining their character. At a glance he would have recognised the debris of the burnt ship, from which he and his companion had so narrowly escaped,—the slave-bark Pandora.

He would have looked upon these objects with no very great surprise, but in all likelihood with a feeling of considerable satisfaction: as offering the means for recruiting the strength of his own slight embarkation, which was barely sufficient to sustain the weight of himself and his companion, and certainly not strong enough to withstand the assault of the most moderate of storms.

In the midst of the "waifs" above enumerated, however, there was one not yet named,—one that differed greatly from all the rest,—and which, had it been seen by them, would have caused extreme surprise both to Ben Brace and little William.

It was a raft, not a great deal larger than their own, but altogether of different construction. A number of planks most of them charred by fire, with a sofa, a bamboo chair, and some other articles of furniture, had been rudely bound together by ropes. These things, of themselves, would have made but a very clumsy craft, no better for navigating the great ocean than that upon which Ben and the boy were themselves embarked. But the buoyancy of the former was secured by a contrivance of which the sailor had not had the opportunity of availing himself. Around its edge were ranged hogsheads or water-casks, evidently empty. They were lashed to the plank; and being bunged up against the influx of the water, kept the whole structure afloat, so that it would have carried a ton or two without sinking below the surface.

There was a smaller cask floating alongside, attached to the timbers by a piece of rope that was tightly looped around the swell. But this could not have been designed to increase the buoyancy of the raft: since it was itself almost submerged, evidently by the weight of something it contained.

Such a congeries of objects might have drifted side by side by chance, or the caprice of the currents; but they could not have tied themselves together in such fashion. There was design in the arrangement; and in the midst of the circle of empty hogsheads might have been seen the contriver of this curious craft. He was, of course, a human being, and a man; but such an one as, under any circumstances, would arrest the attention of the beholder; much more in the singular situation in which he was then met with. He was a black man, in the fullest sense of the word; a true negro, with a skin shining like ebony; a skull of large size, and slightly square in shape, covered with a thick crop of curling wool, so close and short as to appear felted into the skin. A brace of broad ears stood prominently out from the sides of his head; and extending almost from one to the other, was a wide-gaping mouth, formed by a pair of lips of huge thickness, protruding far forward, so as to give to the countenance those facial outlines characteristic of the chimpanzee or gorilla.

Notwithstanding his somewhat abnormal features, the expression of the negro's face was far from being hideous. It was not even disagreeable. A double row of white teeth, gleaming between the purplish lips, could be exhibited upon ordinary occasions in a pleasant smile; and the impression derived from looking upon the countenance was, that the owner of it was rather good-natured than otherwise. Just then, as he sat upon the raft, gazing over the bulwark of hogsheads, its expression was one of profound and sombre melancholy. No wonder!

The negro was not alone. Another individual shared with him the occupancy of the raft;—one differing from him in appearance as Hyperion from the Satyr. A few feet from him, and directly before his face, was a little girl, apparently about ten or twelve years of age. She was seated, or rather cowering, among the timbers of the raft, upon a piece of tarpauling that had been spread over them, her eyes bent upon her black companion, though occasionally straying, with listless glance, over the sombre surface of the sea. Although so young, her countenance appeared sad and despondent, as if under the belief that there was little hope of escape from the fearful situation in which she was placed, and as if her little spirit had long ago surrendered to despair.

Though not a negro like her companion, the girl could scarce be called white. Her complexion was of that hue known as olive; but her hair, although curling, hung in long locks down over her shoulders; and the crimson hue deeply tinting her cheeks told that in her blood there was more Caucasian than negro.

Any one who had visited the western coast of Africa, on seeing this little girl, would easily have recognised in her features the type of that mixed race which has resulted from long intercourse between the Portuguese "colonists" and the sable indigenes of the soil.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

HOW SNOWBALL ESCAPED FROM THE SLAVER.

On this curious embarkation, drifting about amid the remains of the wrecked ship, there were only the two human figures,—the negro and the little girl. It is superfluous to say that they were also a portion of the wreck itself,—other castaways who had, so far, succeeded in saving themselves from the fearful doom that had overtaken, no doubt, every one of the wretched beings composing the cargo of the slaver.

The negro upon the raft, though black as the blackest of his unfortunate countrymen, was not among the number of those who had been carried as freight. On the contrary, he was one of the crew,—the lord of the caboose, and known upon the slave-bark by the satirical soubriquet of "Snowball."

Although originally a slave from Africa, and by race a Coromantee, Snowball had long been in the enjoyment of his liberty; and, as cook or steward, had seen service in scores of ships, and circumnavigated the globe in almost every latitude where circumnavigation was possible.

Though not naturally of a wicked disposition, he was by no means particular as to the company he kept, or the sort of ship he sailed in,—so long as the wages were good and the store-room well supplied; and as these conditions are usually found on board of a slaver, it was not Snowball's first voyage in a vessel of the kind. It is true that he had never sailed in company with a more ribald crew than that of the Pandora; but it is only justice to say, that, long before the fatal interruption of that voyage, even he had become tired of their companionship, and had been almost as eager to get away from the ship as Ben Brace or little William.

He, too, had been deterred from attempting to escape while upon the African coast, by the knowledge that such an attempt would have been worse than idle. In all likelihood it would have ended in his being captured by his own countrymen,—or, at all events, by people of his own colour,—and sold once more into that very slavery from which he had formerly succeeded in emancipating himself.

Though Snowball's morality was far from being immaculate, there was one virtue which he was not wanting,—gratitude. But for the possession of this, he might have been alone upon the raft, and, perhaps, less caring in what direction the winds and waves might carry him. As it was, his sole thought and anxiety was about his little companion, whose safety was as dear to him as his own.

It will be asked why Snowball felt this unselfish solicitude. The child could not be his own? Complexion, features, everything forbade the supposition that there could be anything of kinship between her and her sable protector.

Nor was there the slightest. On the contrary, the little girl was the daughter of one who had once been Snowball's greatest enemy,—the man who had sold him into slavery; but who had afterwards won the negro's gratitude by restoring to him his freedom. This person had formerly owned a trading fort on the coast of Africa, but of late years had been a resident of Rio in Brazil. His daughter, born in the former country, previous to his leaving it, was crossing the great ocean to rejoin him in his new home in the western world. Hence her presence on board the Pandora, where she had been a passenger under the protection of Snowball.

And well had the negro performed his duty as protector. When all the others had forsaken the ship, and the flames were fast spreading over her decks, the faithful negro had gone below, and, rousing the girl from her sleep,—for she had been slumbering unconscious of the danger,—had borne her amidst flames and smoke, at the imminent risk of his own life, and passing through the cabin windows with his burden in his arms, he had dropped down into the sea under the stern of the burning bark.

Being an excellent swimmer, he had kept afloat for some minutes, sustaining both himself and his burden by his own strength; but after a while he succeeded in clutching on to the davit-tackle by which the gig had been let down into the water, and having passed his foot through a loop in the end of it, he remained half suspended, half afloat on the water. Soon after came the explosion, caused by the ignition of the gunpowder; and as the vessel was blown to pieces, the sea around became strewed with fragments of shattered timber, cabin furniture, sea-chests, and the like. Laying hold on those pieces that were nearest, he succeeded in forming a rude sort of raft, upon which he and his protege were enabled to pass the remainder of the night.

When morning dawned, Snowball and the little Lalee—such was the name of the child—were the only beings who appeared to have survived the catastrophe,—the wretched creatures who at the last moment had escaped from the "'tween-decks" were no longer in existence.

Having been brought from the interior of the African continent,—and from a district where there are no great lakes or rivers,—but few of them could swim; and those few had become the prey of the sharks, that in scores were swimming around the frail craft. As the sun rose over the ocean, and lit up the scene of that terrible tragedy, Snowball saw not a living creature save his own protege, the sharks, and their satellites.

The negro knew, however, that the Pandora's own people had escaped. He had witnessed the clandestine departure of the gig, containing the skipper and his confederates.

This he had seen, while gazing through the windows of the cabin, previous to launching himself upon that last desperate leap. He had also been a witness to the departure of the great raft carrying the crew.

It may appear strange that he did not swim towards it, and share the fortunes of his former associates. Why he did not do so is easily explained. By an accident, arising from his own negligence, the ship had been set on fire. He was aware of this; and he knew also that both captain and crew were equally cognisant of the fact. The former, just after the discovery, assisted by the brutal mate, had administered to him (Snowball) such a chastisement as he would not soon forget; while the crew, on becoming acquainted with the circumstance, were upon the point of tossing him into the sea; and would no doubt have carried their design into execution, but for the presence of the appalling danger impelling them to look to their own safety. The negro knew, therefore, that, were he to seek safety on the great raft, it would only be to throw himself into merciless hands, certain to spurn him back with vengeful indignation, or fling him into the jaws of the hideous monsters already swimming around the ship, and quartering the sea in every direction.

For this reason had Snowball chosen to trust to his own strength,—to chance,—to anything rather than the mercy of his old associates, with whom, for a long period past, he had been far from a favourite.

Perhaps it had turned out for the best. Had he succeeded in reaching the great raft, and been permitted to share with its occupants their chances of safety, it is more than probable that the little Lalee might have become the victim of that horrid attempt from which the little William had so narrowly escaped!



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

SNOWBALL AMID THE DRIFT.

The adventures of Snowball and his protege, from the blowing up of the Pandora until six suns had risen and gone down over the ocean, if not so varied as those of Ben Brace and his protege, were nevertheless of sufficient interest to deserve a brief narration.

Supported by the few sticks which he had been able to draw together, he had remained during the rest of the night in the midst of the floating fragments.

He had listened to the wild shouts of vengeful rage, proceeding from the throats of the slaves as they clutched at the great raft, and were beaten back by those who occupied it. He had seen the broad sail suddenly hoisted, and the dark mass gradually gliding away over the ocean. He had heard many an agonising yell as, one by one, the few strong swimmers who survived the rest either sank by exhaustion or were dragged down in the jaws of the numerous sharks; until, the last shriek having sounded in his ears, all became silent as the tomb, while the sombre surface of the sea once more lay motionless around him. Even the ravening monsters, for a moment, seemed to have forsaken the spot,—as if each, having secured a sufficient prey, had gone down to devour it undisturbed in the dark unfathomed caverns of the deep.

When morning dawned upon the scene, although many objects met the eye of the negro and his companion, there was no human being within sight; and Snowball knew that, with the exception of the six men who had rowed off in the gig, and the crew upon the great raft, there were no other survivors of the slaver.

The crew having spread a sail to get out of reach of the drowning wretches who were clutching at their raft, the latter was soon carried out of sight; while the six in the gig had rowed off as fast as they were able, in order to get out of reach of their own companions! For these reasons, when day broke over the ocean, neither boat nor raft were visible from the spot where the catastrophe had occurred.

It may appear strange that none of the living cargo of the slaver had succeeded in saving themselves, by clinging to some fragment of the wreck; and Snowball thought so at the time.

The truth was, that those who could swim had struck out after the raft, and had followed it so far that they were not able to swim back to the burning vessel; while the others, in the wild terror produced by the proximity of the flames, had leaped despairingly into the sea, and sunk upon the instant.

The early sunbeams, as they fell slantingly over the surface of the sea, told the negro that he was alone,—alone with the little Lalee,—alone in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean,—afloat upon a few sticks,—without a morsel of food to eat, without a drop of water to drink!

It was a terrible situation,—sufficient to produce despair even in the stoutest heart.

But Snowball was not one of the despairing sort. He had been too often in peril of life—both by sea and land—to be unnerved even in that dread hour; and instead of permitting his spirits to become prostrated, he bethought him of how he might make the best of the circumstances by which he was surrounded.

An object that came under his eye, just as the day began to break, kindled within him a faint gleam of hope, and urged to making an effort for the salvation of himself and his helpless companion. This object was a small keg, or beaker, which chanced to be floating near him, and which, from some mark upon it, Snowball recognised. He knew that it had been standing in a corner of the caboose, previous to the blowing up of the bark; and, moreover, that it contained several gallons of fresh water, which he had himself surreptitiously abstracted from the common stock, previous to the time that the slaver's crew had agreed to being put upon rations.

It was but the work of a minute to secure this keg, and attach it by a strong cord to the piece of timber on which the ex-cook was seated astride.

But for this unexpected supply of water Snowball might probably have yielded to despair. Without water to drink he could not have reckoned on a long lease of life,—either for himself or his protege. So opportunely had the keg come before his eyes as to seem a Providential interference; and the belief or fancy that it was so stimulated him to a further search among the fragments of the shattered ship.

There were many queer things around him,—like himself bobbing about upon the tiny waves. One, however, soon monopolised his attention; and that was a barrel of somewhat flimsy structure, and about the size of those usually employed for carrying flour. Snowball recognised it also as an old acquaintance in the store-room, and knew that it was filled with the best kind of biscuit,—a private stock belonging to the captain.

Its contents could not fail to be saturated with salt-water, for the barrel was not water-tight; but the ex-cook could dry them in the sun, and render them, if not palatable, at least eatable.

The biscuit-barrel was soon fished up out of the water, and placed high and dry upon the little raft.

Snowball was next struck with the necessity of improving the quality of his craft, by giving it increase both in size and strength. With this intention—after having possessed himself of an oar, out of several that were adrift—he commenced paddling about among the floating fragments, here and there picking up such pieces as appeared best suited to his purpose.

In a short while he succeeded in collecting a sufficient number of spars and other pieces of timber,—among which figured a portion of his own old tenement, the caboose,—to form a raft as large as he might require; and to his great satisfaction he saw around him the very things that would render it seaworthy. Bobbing about on the waves, and at no great distance, were half a dozen empty water-casks. There had been too many of them aboard the slaver: since their emptiness was the original cause of the catastrophe that had ensued. But there were not too many for Snowball's present purpose; and, after paddling first to one and then another, he secured each in turn, and lashed them to his raft, in such fashion, that the great hogsheads, sitting higher in the water than the timbers of the raft, formed a sort of parapet around it.

This task accomplished, he proceeded to collect from the wreck such other articles as he fancied might be of service to him; and, thus occupied, he spent several days on the spot where the Pandora had gone to pieces.

The slight breezes that arose from time to time, and again subsided, had not separated his raft from the other objects still left floating near. In whatever direction they went, so went he: since all were drifting together.

The idea had never occurred to the negro to set up a sail and endeavour to get away from the companionship of the inanimate objects around him,—souvenirs as they were of a fearful disaster. Or rather it had occurred to him, and was rejected as unworthy of being entertained. Snowball, without knowing much of the theory of navigation, had sufficient practical acquaintance with the great Atlantic Ocean,— especially that part of it where lies the track of the dreaded "middle passage,"—long remembered by the transported slave,—Snowball, I say, was sufficiently acquainted with his present whereabouts, to know that a sail set upon his raft, and carrying him hither and thither, would not add much to the chances of his being rescued from a watery grave. His only hope lay in being picked up by some passing vessel; and, feeling convinced of this, he made no effort to go one way or the other, but suffered himself to be drifted about, along with the other waifs of the wreck, whithersoever it pleased the winds or the currents of the ocean to carry him.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

SNOWBALL AT SEA ON A HENCOOP.

For six days had Snowball been leading this sort of life, along with the little Lalee,—subsisting partly on the sea-steeped biscuit found in the barrel, and partly upon other provisions which had turned up among the drift; while the precious water contained in the keg had hitherto kept them from suffering the pangs of thirst.

During these six days he had never wholly surrendered himself up to despair. It was not the first, by several times, for the old sea-cook to have suffered shipwreck; nor was it his first time to be cast away in mid-ocean. Once had he been blown overboard in a storm, and left behind,—the ship, from the violence of the wind, having been unable to tack round and return to his rescue. Being an excellent swimmer, he had kept afloat, buffeting with the huge billows for nearly an hour. Of course, in the end, he must have gone to the bottom, as the place where the incident occurred was hundreds of miles from any land. But just as he was on the point of giving in, a hencoop came drifting past, to which he at once attached himself, and this being fortunately of sufficient size to sustain his weight, hindered him from sinking.

Though he knew that the hencoop had been thrown out of the ship by some of his comrades, after he had gone overboard, the ship herself was no longer in sight; and the unlucky swimmer, notwithstanding the help given him by the hencoop, must eventually have perished among the waves; but the storm having subsided, and the wind suddenly changing into the opposite quarter, the vessel was wafted back on her old track, and passing within hail of Snowball, his comrades succeeded in rescuing him from his perilous situation.

With the retrospect of such an experience,—and Snowball could look back upon many such,—he was not the man to yield easily to despair. On the contrary, he now acted as if he believed that there was still not only some hope, but a considerable chance of being delivered from the dilemma in which the late disaster of the Pandora had placed him.

Scarce an hour during the six days had he permitted to pass in idleness. As already stated, he had collected ample materials from the wreck floating around him. Out of these he had formed a good-sized raft, having spent much time and labour in giving it strength and security. This accomplished, and all the provisions he could find safely stored upon it, he had devoted the rest of his time to fishing.

There were many fish in the neighbourhood of the wreck. Fearful fish they were too: for they were sharks: the same that had made such havoc among the unfortunate creatures who had constituted the cargo of the slaver. These voracious monsters,—though satiated for a time with their human prey,—had not forsaken the spot where the Pandora had gone to pieces; but on the square mile of surface strewed by the floating fragments of the wreck they could still be seen in pairs, and sometimes in larger numbers, with their huge sail-like fins projecting high above the water, veering about as if once more hungry, and quartering the sea in search of fresh victims.

Snowball had not succeeded in capturing any of the sharks, though he had spared no pains in endeavouring to do so. There were other large fish, however, that had made their appearance in the proximity of his raft, attracted thither by the common prospect of food promised by the wreck of the slaver. There were albacores, and bonitos, and dolphins, and many other kinds of ocean fish, rarely seen, or only upon such melancholy occasions. With a long-handled harpoon, which Snowball had succeeded in securing, he was enabled to strike several of these creatures; so that by the evening of the sixth day, his larder was considerably increased,—comprising, in the way of fish, an albacore, a brace of bonitos, with three satellites of the sharks,—a pilot-fish and two sucking-fish.

All these had been ripped open and disembowelled, after which their flesh, cut into thin slices, and spread out on the tops of the empty water-casks that surrounded the raft, was in process of being cured by drying in the sun.

Befriended by the fine weather, Snowball had succeeded, one way and another, in accumulating no mean store of provisions; and, so far as food went, he felt confident, both for himself and his companion, of being able to hold out not only for days, but for weeks or even months.

He felt equal confidence in regard to their stock of water. Having gauged the keg in his own rude way, and satisfied himself as to the quantity of its contents, he had made a calculation of how long it might last, and found that by a careful economy it could be depended upon for a period of several weeks.

Reposing upon these pleasant data, on the night of the sixth day he had gone to rest with a feeling of confidence that soon enticed his spirit into the profoundest slumbers.

Not that Snowball had gone without sleep during the other five nights spent upon his raft. He had slept a little on each of them. Only a little, however; for, as most of them had been moonlight nights, he had kept awake during the greater portion of each, on the lookout over the surface of the ocean, lest some ship, sailing near, might glide past silently and unseen, and so deprive him of a chance of being picked up.

The little Lalee had also borne part in these nocturnal vigils,—taking her turn when Snowball became too weary to keep awake; and so, in alternate watches, had the two been in the habit of tiring out the long hours of the night. To this practice the sixth night had proved an exception. There was no moon in the sky; there were no stars; not a glimmer of light, either in the firmament of the heavens or on the face of the deep. The sky above and the sea below were both of one colour,— the hue of pitch. On such a night it was idle to keep watch. A ship might have passed within a cable's length of the raft, and still remained unseen; and, filled with this conviction, both Snowball and his companion, after the night had fairly closed over them, stretched their bodies along the pieces of sail-cloth that formed their respective couches, and surrendered their spirits to the sweet enchantment of sleep.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

THE FLASH OF LIGHTNING.

Snowball began to snore almost as soon as he had closed his eyelids, and as if the shutting of his eyes had either occasioned or strengthened the current of breath through his nostrils.

And such a sound as the snore of the Coromantee was rarely heard upon the ocean,—except in the "spouting" of a whale or the "blowing" of a porpoise.

It did not wake the little Lalee. She had become accustomed to the snoring of Snowball,—which, instead of being a disturber, acted rather as a lullaby to her rest.

It was only after both had been asleep for many hours after midnight,— in fact when Lalee was herself sleeping less soundly, and when a snore, more prolonged and prodigious than any that had preceded it, came swelling through the nostrils of the sea-cook,—it was only then that the young girl was awakened.

Becoming aware of what had awakened her, she would have gone to sleep again; but just as she was about re-composing herself upon her sail-cloth couch, a sight came before her eyes that caused her not only to remain awake, but filled her with a feeling of indescribable awe.

On the instant of opening her eyes, the sky, hitherto dark, had become suddenly illumined by lightning,—not in streaks or flashes, but as if a sheet of fire had been spread for an instant over the whole canopy of the heavens.

At the same time the surface of the sea had been equally lighted up with the vivid gleam; and among the many objects drifting around the raft,— the remnants of the wreck, with which the eyes of the little Lalee had now become familiarised,—she saw, or fancied she saw, one altogether new to her.

It was a human face and figure, in the likeness of a beautiful boy, who appeared to be kneeling on the water, or on some slight structure on a level with the surface of the sea!

The lightning had revealed other objects beside him and over him. A pair of slender sticks, standing some feet apart, and in a perpendicular position, with some white strips suspended between them, in the gleam of the lightning shone clear and conspicuous.

It is not to be wondered at that the little Lalee should feel surprise at an apparition,—so unexpected, in such a place, and under such circumstances. It is not to be wondered at that her first impulse should be to rouse her companion out of his snoring slumbers.

She did so upon the instant, and without waiting for another flash of lightning either to confirm her belief in what she had seen, or convince her that it was only an apparition,—which her fancy, disturbed by the dreams in which she had been indulging, had conjured up on the instant of her awaking.

"Wha's dat you say?" inquired Snowball, abruptly awakened in the middle of a superb snore; "see something! you say dat, ma pickaninny? How you see anyting such night as dis be? Law, ma lilly Lally, you no see de nose before you own face. De 'ky 'bove am dark as de complexyun ob dis ole nigga; you muss be mistake, lilly gal!—dat you muss!"

"No, indeed, Snowball!" replied Lalee, speaking in gumbo Portuguese, "I am not mistaken. It wasn't dark when I saw it. There was lightning; and it was as clear as in daylight for a little while. I'm sure I saw some one!"

"What was de some one like?" interrogated Snowball, in an accent that proclaimed incredulity. "Was 'um a man or a woman?"

"Neither."

"Neider! Den it muss ha' been,—ha! maybe it war a mermaid!"

"What I saw looked like a boy, Snowball. O, now I think of it, like that boy."

"What boy you 'peak 'bout?"

"He who was aboard the ship,—the English boy who was one of the sailors."

"Ah! you mean de little Will'm, I 'pose. I reck'n dat 'ere lad hab gone to de bott'm ob de sea long afore dis, or else he get off on de big raff. I know he no go 'long wi' de cappen, 'case I see de little chap close by de caboose after de gig row 'way. If he hab go by de raff dem ruffins sure eat him up,—dat be if dey get hungry. Dey sure do dat! Hark! what's dat I heer? Sure's my name be Snowball, I hear some 'un 'peak out dere to win'ard. D'you hear anything, lilly Lally?"

"Yes, Snowball: I think I did."

"What you tink you?"

"A voice."

"What sort o' voice?"

"Like a boy's voice,—just like his."

"Who you mean?"

"The boy-sailor aboard the ship. O, listen! There it is again; and surely I hear another?"

"Gorramity! little gal, you 'peak de troof. Sure 'nuff dere am a voice,—two ob dat same. One am like de boy we 'peak 'bout,—odder more like a man o' full groaf. I wonder who dey can be. Hope 't an't de ghoses of some o' de Pandoras dat ha' been drowned or eat up by de sharks. Lissen 'gain, Lally, an' try make dem out."

Having imparted this injunction, the negro raised himself into a half-erect attitude; and facing to windward with his arms resting upon one of the empty casks,—which, as already stated, formed a sort of circular parapet around his raft,—he remained silent and listening.

The little Lalee had also assumed a half-erect attitude; and, by the side of her sable companion, kept peering out into the darkness,—in the hope that another flash of lightning might again reveal to her eyes the features of that beautiful boy, who, alone of all upon that fated ship, had made upon her mind an impression worthy of being remembered.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

TO THE OARS.

"We've got to die!"

As the sailor gave utterance to these words of fearful import, he started from his recumbent position, and, half-erect upon the raft, remained listening,—at the same time endeavouring with his glance to pierce the darkness that shrouded the surface of the deep.

Little William, terrified by the speech of his protector, made no rejoinder, but with like silence continued to look and listen.

There was nothing visible save sea and sky; and these, in the dim obscurity, were not to be distinguished from each other. A raft or boat,—even a large ship,—could not have been seen at two cables' distance from that on which they were drifting along; and the only sounds now heard were the sighing of the night breeze, and the "swish" of the water as it swept along the sides of their slight embarkation.

For five minutes or more there was nothing to interrupt this duetto of winds and waves, and Ben was beginning to believe he had been mistaken. It might not have been the voice of a man, nor a voice at all. He was but half awake when he fancied hearing it. Was it only a fancy,—an illusion? It was at the best very indistinct,—as of some one speaking in a muttered tone. It might be the "blowing" of a porpoise, or the utterance of some unknown monster of the sea: for the sailor's experience had taught him that there are many kinds of creatures inhabiting the ocean that are only seen at rare intervals even by one who is constantly traversing it, and many others one may never see at all. Could the sounds have proceeded from the throat of some of these human-like denizens of the deep, known as dugongs, lamantins, manatees, and the like?

It was strangest of all that William had heard the voice of a girl: for the lad still adhered to the belief that he had done so. That might have been the cry of a bird, or a mermaid; and Ben would have been ready enough to accept the latter explanation. But the voice of a young girl, coupled with that of a man, rendered the circumstance more mysterious and altogether inexplicable.

"Didn't you hear a man's voice, lad?" he asked at length, with a view either of dissipating his doubts or confirming them.

"I did," replied the boy. "Yes, Ben; I'm sure I did, not loud, but muttered like. But I don't know whether if was Le Gros. O, if it was!"

"Thee have good reason to know his ugly croak, the parleyvooin' scoundrel! That thee have, Will'm! Let's hope we are both mistaken: for if we're to come across them ruffins on the big raft, we needn't expect mercy at their hands. By this time they'll be all as hungry as the sharks and as ravenin' too."

"Oh!" exclaimed William, in accents of renewed fear, "I hope it's not them!"

"Speak low, lad!" said the sailor, interrupting him, "only in whispers. If they be near, the best thing for us are to keep quiet. They can't see us no more than we can them; anyhow, till it come mornin'. If we could hear the sound again so as to make out the direction. I didn't notice that."

"I did," interrupted William. "Both the voices I heard were out this way."

The boy pointed to leeward.

"To leuart, you think they wur?"

"I'm sure they came from that quarter."

"That be curious, hows'ever," said the sailor. "If't be them on the big raft they must a passed us, or else the wind must a veered round, for we've been to leuart o' them ever since partin' wi' 'em. Could the wind a gone round I wonder? Like enough. It be queer,—and it's blowing from the west in this part o' the Atlantic! 'Tan't possible to say what point it be in, hows'ever,—not without a compass. There bean't even the glimmer o' a star in the sky; and if there wur we couldn't make much o' it; since the north star bean't seen down in these latitudes. Thee be sure the sound come from leuart?"

"O, I am quite sure of it, Ben; the voices came up the wind."

"Then we'd best go the same way and gie 'em as wide a berth as possible. Look alive, lad! Let's down wi' them flitches o' the shark-meat: for it's them that's driftin' us along. We'll take a spell at the oars, and afore daylight we may get out o' hearin' o' the voices, and out of sight o' them as has been utterin' o' them."

Both rose simultaneously to their feet, and commenced taking down the slices of half-dried shark-flesh, and placing them upon the sail-cloth,—with the intention, as the sailor had counselled it, to unship the oars that had been doing duty as masts, and make use of them in their proper manner.

While engaged in this operation both remained silent,—at intervals stopping in their work to listen.

They had got so far as to clear away the suspended flitches, and were about unfastening the cords where they were looped around the upright oars, when another cord, attached to one of the latter, caught their attention. It was the piece of rope which closed the mouth of their tarpauling water-bag, and held the latter in such a position as to keep the "cask" from leaking.

Fortunately they were doing things in a deliberate manner. If they had been acting otherwise, and had rashly "unstepped" the mast to which that piece of rope was attached, their stock of fresh water would have been rapidly diminished,—perhaps altogether spilled into the salt sea, before they should have become aware of the disaster. As it was, they perceived the danger in good time; and, instead of taking down the oar, at once desisted from their intention.

It now became a question as to whether they should proceed any further in the design of rowing the raft to windward. With a single oar they could make but little way; and the other was already occupied in doing a duty from which it could not possibly be spared.

It is true there were still left the fragments of the hand spike that had been ground between the teeth of the surviving shark, and afterwards picked up as they drifted past it. This might serve instead of the oar to support the mouth of the water-bag; and as soon as this idea occurred to them they set about carrying it into execution.

It took but a few minutes of time to substitute one stick for the other; and then, both oars being free, they seated themselves on opposite sides of the raft, and commenced propelling it against the wind,—in a direction contrary to that in which the mysterious voices had been heard.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

SHIP AHOY!

They had not made over a dozen strokes of their oars,—which they handled cautiously and in silence, all the while listening intently,— when their ears were again saluted by sounds similar to those first heard by little William, and which he had conjectured to be the voice of a young girl. As before, the utterance was very low,—murmured, as if repeating a series of words,—in fact, as if the speaker was engaged in a quiet conversation.

"Shiver my timbers!" exclaimed the sailor, as soon as the voice again ceased to be heard. "If that bean't the palaver o' a little girl, my name wur never Ben Brace on a ship's book. A smalley wee thing she seem to be; not bigger than a marlinspike. It sound like as if she wur talkin' to some un. What the Ole Scratch can it mean, Will'm?"

"I don't know. Could it be a mermaid?"

"Could it? In course it could."

"But are there mermaids, Ben?"

"Maremaids! Be theer maremaids? That what you say? Who denies there ain't? Nobody but disbelevin land-lubbers as never seed nothin' curious, 'ceptin' two-headed calves and four-legged chickens. In coorse there be maremaids. I've seed some myself; but I've sailed with a shipmate as has been to a part o' the Indyan Ocean, where there be whole schools o' 'em, wi' long hair hangin' about their ears an' over their shoulders, just like reg'lar schools o' young girls goin' out for a walk in the outskirts o' Portsmouth or Gravesend. Hush! theer be her voice again!"

As the sailor ceased speaking, a tiny treble, such as might proceed from the tongue of a child,—a girl of some eight or ten years old,—came trembling over the waves, in tones that betokened a conversation.

A moment or two elapsed; and then, as if in reply to the words spoken by the child, was heard another voice,—evidently that of a man!

"If the one be a maremaid," whispered Ben to his companion, "the other must be a mareman. Shiver my timbers, if it ain't a curious confab! Moonrakers and skyscrapers! what can it mean?"

"I don't know," mechanically answered the boy.

"Anyhow," continued the sailor, apparently relieved by the reflection, "It ain't the big raft. There's no voice like that little 'un among its crew o' ruffins; and that man, whosomever he be, don't speak like Le Gros. I only thought so at first, bein' half asleep.

"If it be a school o' maremaids," pursued he, "theer an't no danger, even wi' theer men along wi' 'em. Leastwise, I never heerd say there wur from maremaids more'n any other weemen; an' not so much, I dare ay. Sartin it bean't the Frenchman, nor any o' that scoundrel crew. Lord o' mercy! It might be a ship as is passing near us!"

As this thought occurred to the speaker, he raised himself into an erect attitude, as if to get a better view.

"I'll hail, Will'm," he muttered; "I'll hail 'em. Keep your ears open, lad; and listen for the answer. Ship ahoy!"

The hail was sent in the direction whence the mysterious sounds appeared to have proceeded. There came no response; and the sailor, after listening attentively for a second or two, repeated the "Ship ahoy!" this time in a louder key.

Quick as an echo the words came back, though it could not be an echo. There are no echoes upon the ocean; besides, the voice that repeated the well-known phrase was quite different from that of him who had first pronounced it. Though different both in tone and accent, it was evidently a human voice; and, as evidently, that of a man. A rude, rough voice it was; but it is superfluous to say that, to the ears of Ben Brace and his youthful companion, it sounded sweeter than any music to which they had ever listened. The words "Ship ahoy!" were soon succeeded by others, proceeding from the same lips.

"Gorramity!" spoke the strange voice, "who de debbil call dar? Dat some'dy in de boat? Dat you, Capten? Am it you, Massa Grow?"

"A negro," muttered Ben to his companion. "It's Snowball, the cook. It can't be anybody but him. In the name o' Neptune how has the darkey got there? What's he aboard o'? He warn't on the great raft wi' the rest. I thought he'd gone off in the captain's gig. If that wur so, then it's the boat that is near us."

"No," replied William, "I'm sure I saw Snowball by the caboose after the gig had rowed away. As he wasn't with them on the big raft, I supposed he'd been drowned, or burned up in the ship. Surely, it's his voice? There it is again!"

"Ship ahoy-hoy-hoy!" once more came the words pealing over the water in a loud prolonged drawl. "Ship ahoy, some'dy call out dar? What ship am dat? Am it a ship at all? Or am it some o' de wreck Pandoray?"

"Castaways," responded Ben. "Castaways of the bark Pandora, Who calls? Snowball! Be it you?"

"Dat same chile,—who am you? Am it you, massa Capten,—in de gig?"

"No."

"Massa Grow, den, on de big raff?"

"Neither," responded the sailor. "It's Ben,—Ben Brace."

"Golly! you say so, Massa Brace! How you be dar, unless you on de big raff?"

"I'm on a raft of my own. Have you one, Snowball?"

"Ya, massa Ben, ya! I make um out o' de wreck an de water-cask."

"Are ye all alone?"

"Not 'zackly dat. The pickaninny be long wi' me,—de cabing gal. You know de lilly Lalee?"

"Oh! she it be!" muttered Ben, now remembering the little cabin passenger of the Pandora. "You bean't movin', be you?"

"No," responded Snowball, "lying on de water like a log o' 'hogany wood. Han't move a mile ebba since de bustin' ob de powder ball."

"Keep your place then. We've got oars. We'll row down to you."

"We—you say we? You got some'dy sides yaself on dat raff?"

"Little Will'm."

"Lilly Willum,—ah? dat ere brave lilly lad. See 'im jess as I go down in de cabin fo' get de pickaninny. See 'im forrard with axe,—he knock off de gratin' ob de fore-hatch,—he set all dem 'ere niggas free. It warn't no use,—not bit good o' dem. Dey all got eat up by de shark, or dey go down straight to de bottom. Gorramity! how dey s'riek an' 'cream, an' jump overboard into de water!"

Neither the sailor nor Little William paid any heed to the negro's half-soliloquised narrative, further than to make use of his voice to guide them through the darkness towards the spot whence it proceeded. On discovering that it was Snowball who was near, both had turned upon their own craft, and were now rowing it in the opposite direction to that in which, but the moment before, they had been so eagerly propelling it.

As they now pulled to leeward, they had the wind in their favour; and by the time the negro arrived at the end of his disjointed narrative, they were within half a cable's length of him, and, through the darkness, were beginning to distinguish the outlines of the odd embarkation that carried Snowball and his protege.

Just then the lightning blazed across the canopy of heaven, discovering the two rafts,—each to the other. In ten seconds more they were en rapport, and their respective crews congratulating each other, with as much joyfulness as if the unexpected encounter had completely delivered them from death and its dangers!



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

THE RAFTS EN RAPPORT.

Two travellers meeting in the midst of a lone wilderness, even though strangers to each other, would not be likely to pass without speaking. If old acquaintances, then would they be certain to make the longest pause possible, and procrastinate their parting till the last moment allowed by the circumstances. If these circumstances would permit of their reaching their respective destinations by the same route, how sorry would each be to separate, and how happy to enter into a mutual alliance of co-operation and companionship!

Just like two such travellers, or two parties of travellers, meeting in the midst of the desert,—a wilderness of land,—so met, in the midst of the ocean,—the wilderness of water,—the two rafts whose history we have hitherto chronicled. Their crews were not strangers to each other, but old acquaintances. If not all friends in the past, the circumstances that now surrounded them were of a kind to make them friends for the future. Under the awe inspired by a common danger, the lion will lie down with the lamb, and the fierce jaguar consorts with the timid capivara no longer trembling at the perilous proximity.

But there was no particular antipathy between the crews of the two rafts thus singularly becoming united. It is true that formerly there had been some hostility displayed by the negro towards Little William, and but little friendship between the former and Ben Brace. These, however, were things of the past; and during the last days of their companionship on board the Pandora the sentiments of all three had undergone a change. An identity of interests had produced a certain three-cornered sympathy,—obliterating all past spite, and establishing, if not positive friendship, at least a sort of triangular forgiveness. Of course this affection was of the isosceles kind,—Ben and Little William being the sides, and Snowball the base. It is scarce necessary to say, that, meeting again under the circumstances described, all past spite, had there been any, would have been forgiven and forgotten.

Fortunately this had been already done. Between Ben and Snowball, and Snowball and Little William, the hatchet had been long ago buried; and they now met, not as enemies, but as old acquaintances,—almost as friends: nay, we might say, altogether as friends. If not so before, the common danger had made them so now, and amicably did they greet one another.

After such an encounter, it is superfluous to say that no thought of again separating entered into the minds of any of the party. The crews of both rafts knew that their destinations were identical.

Each was an ocean waif, seeking to escape from the wilderness of waters,—longing for deliverance from a common danger. In company they might have a better chance of obtaining it. Why should they separate to search for it?

The question did not occur to either,—in thought or in word. From the moment of their meeting, instinct told them that their destinies were the same,—that their action in future should be united.

After the two rafts had collided together, and those involuntary but joyful salutations were exchanged between their crews, the respective skippers became occupied with the more serious business of uniting the frail embarkations into one, and rendering them for the future inseparable.

"Snowball!" inquired the sailor, "have you got any spare rope?"

"Plenty o' dat 'ere," responded the ex-cook of the Pandora.

"Yar am a coil o' strong sinnet. Dat do?"

"That's the stuff," responded Ben. "Heave it this way, ye son of a sea-cook! Heave!"

"Now," continued he, laying hold of the coil of sennit, and tossing back one end over an empty water-cask. "Make fast there, Snowey! I dare say we can lay alongside safe enough till daylight! After that we'll splice together in a better sort o' way."

The ex-cook, obedient to the injunctions of the seaman, seized hold of the end of rope thrown to him, and made it fast to one of the spars which comprised his singular craft; while at the same time Ben busied himself in tying the other end to the piece of handspike erected upon his own.

Soon each completed his task; and after some time spent in a mutual detail of the adventures that had befallen them since the hour of separation on the deck of the ill-fated Pandora, it was agreed that all should go to rest for the remainder of the night, and with the earliest light of day take measures to perpetuate the union of the two wandering waifs thus unexpectedly brought into companionship.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

RECONSTRUCTING THE RAFT.

The crews of both rafts were astir by early dawn, the sailor arousing one and all from their slumbers. The rising sun, as it shone over the ocean, fell upon four faces, all wearing a very different expression from that which they had exhibited at his setting on the day before. If not positively cheerful, there was at least hopefulness in their looks: for their renewed companionship had mutually inspired one and all with renewed hopes of deliverance. Indeed, it was evident even to the youngest of the party, that this unexpected union of strength would materially increase the chances of escape from the common danger; since the two strong men working together could do many things that would have been impossible to either of them alone,—to say nothing of the encouragement and confidence always springing from concerted action.

The very fact of their having come together in the way they had done seemed something more than accidental. It looked less like mere accident than that they had been favoured by the hand of Providence; and even the rude seaman, and the still ruder sea-cook, were only too glad to give way to the fancy that Providence was interfering on their behalf.

Certainly, the succession of fortunate events with which both had been favoured,—and which had not only hitherto sustained them, but promised to preserve their lives for a still longer period,—certainly, these circumstances were sufficient to beget the belief that they were specially under the protection of some power less capricious than mere chance.

The fact of their having encountered each other—even when one of them had been in the act of taking measures to avoid the encounter—was of itself something to strengthen this conviction, and increase their hopefulness for the future.

This very effect it produced; and it was for that reason that Ben Brace was so early astir, and so early in arousing the others.

The sailor had had too much experience in the capriciousness of the wind to believe that such calm weather as they had been enjoying for days would last much longer; and he had got up betimes with a view of uniting the two rafts, and strengthening the structure that might spring out of their union, so that it might resist whatever storm should threaten.

To attempt constructing a craft of such capability did not seem so hopeless to the skilful seaman. Before it had appeared so; but now, with the materials composing the two rafts, and others which the morning sun disclosed drifting about upon the surface of the sea, the thing looked less of an impossibility. In fact, it did not appear at all impossible; and for this reason Ben and the black at once came to the determination to attempt it.

After a short time spent in deliberation, it was resolved to break up the lesser raft,—that which had hitherto carried the sailor and little William. The planks composing it could be transferred to the larger and better structure which Snowball had got together; and this was furthermore to be reconstructed and considerably enlarged.

It was not designed to make any great alteration in the shape or fashion which Snowball had chosen for his craft, which displayed great ingenuity on the part of its designer. As it was deemed proper enough, his design was to be retained,—only the construction was to be on a larger scale.

Before setting to work, it was essential that something in the shape of a breakfast should be swallowed. This was drawn from the stores which Snowball had been engaged for days in accumulating, and consisted simply of biscuit and dried "bonito."

In the absence of any fire, the ex-cook had no opportunity to exercise his peculiar vocation, else the meal might have been more palatable. The biscuits from having had a salt bath were a little briny to the taste; but that signified little to such sharp appetites as they were called upon to satisfy; and it was not such a bad breakfast, when washed down, as it was, with a little wine and water.

You may be asking whence came the wine; and this was the very question which the sailor addressed to Snowball, on discovering such a commodity upon his craft.

The answer was easy enough. A small cask of "Canary" had been one of the items among the cabin stores. At the explosion it had been pitched into the sea; and not being quite full had freely floated on the surface. Snowball had taken possession of it by attaching it to his timbers.

Breakfast over, the work of reconstruction commenced. As a preliminary, the flitches of shark-meat were removed from the little raft, now doomed to destruction; while that ingenious contrivance of the sailor,—the canvas water-cask,—now no longer required, was emptied of its contents; which, with the greatest care, were decanted into the safe depository of one of the empty hogsheads that had been hitherto acting as supports to the embarkation of Snowball.

The oars, sail-cloth, piece of handspike, axe, and tarpauling were also transferred to the latter; and then the planks, and fragments of yards and spars, were loosed from their lashings, and one by one distributed into their proper places in the new structure.

All day long did the work continue,—only an interval of an hour being appropriated to the midday meal. Excursions, too, were made from point to point,—the oars serving to propel the half-constructed craft: the object of these excursions being to pick up such pieces of timber, ropes, or other articles as Snowball had not already secured. The aid of the others now rendered many items available which Snowball had formerly rejected as useless,—because unmanageable by himself while acting alone.

The sun set upon their task still unfinished; but they retired hopefully to rest: for the sky promised a continuance of the calm weather, and they knew that if the promise was kept, a few hours in the morning of the following day would suffice to complete the construction of a raft,—one that would not only give them ample accommodation for the stowage both of themselves and their stores, but would in all probability ride out any gale likely to be encountered in that truly pacific part of the Atlantic Ocean.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

THE CATAMARAN.

Next morning, as soon as there was light enough for them to see what they were about, the work was resumed; and the timbers having been put together in a fashion to satisfy all hands, were lashed to one another as tightly as the united strength of the sailor, Snowball, and Little William could draw the ropes around them.

The structure when completed was of an oblong shape,—somewhat resembling a punt or flat-bottomed ferry-boat,—nearly twenty feet in length by about half as much in breadth of beam. The empty hogsheads were placed around the edge in a regular manner. One lay crosswise at the head, while another was similarly situated as regarded the stern. The other four—there were six in all—were lashed lengthwise along the sides,—two of them opposite each other on the larboard and starboard bows, while the other two respectively represented the "quarters." By this arrangement a certain symmetry was obtained; and when the structure was complete, it really looked like a craft intended for navigation, and by Ben Brace,—its chief architect,—it was facetiously christened The Catamaran.

By noon of the second day the Catamaran was completed,—so far as the hull was concerned. Had Snowball been by himself he would have left it in that state: for the black did not yet believe that there was the slightest probability of reaching land by means of such an embarkation.

But the sailor,—more skilled in such matters,—was of a different way of thinking. He believed it not only possible, but probable enough, that this feat might be accomplished. He knew that they were in the very centre of the southern trade-wind; and that the raft, even if left to itself, would in time drift onward to some point on the coast of South America. With a sail its speed would be accelerated; and although, thus furnished, such a clumsy structure could not sail very swiftly, there was still a chance of its carrying them safely,—if slowly,—to land. Ben knew it was simply a question of time,—dependent upon how long their provisions might last them,—but more especially their supply of water.

Having formed in his own mind a sort of rough calculation as to the chances, and finding them rather in favour of the scheme, he determined on making trial of it, by erecting a mast upon the raft, and to this bending a sail. At the worst, their chances of being picked up would be quite as good while sailing with the wind, as if they allowed themselves to lie adrift upon the ocean.

Fortunately the materials for both mast and sail were on hand, and in abundance. They had found the "spanker" of the Pandora floating about, with its boom and all the cordage attached. By using the boom as a mast, and another smaller spar as a boom, they could rig up such a sail as would carry the Catamaran through the water with considerable velocity.

As soon as he had fully considered it in his own mind, the sailor, aided by Snowball and Little William, proceeded to rig the Catamaran, and by the close of the third day from the commencement of their labours a tall mast stood up out of the centre of that curious craft, midships between stem and stern, with boom and guy, and a broad sail hanging loosely along its yard,—ready to be spread to the first breath of wind that might blow westward over the ocean.

The breeze which had brought Ben and little William back among the wreck-drift of the slave-bark, leading to a renewal of intercourse with their old shipmate, Snowball, had been blowing in the contrary direction to that in which the sailor intended to steer. This breeze, however, was not such as was to be looked for in that latitude. It was only a mere puff,—a cat's-paw,—in the midst of the calm that had continued for many days after the destruction of the slaver. It had lulled again on the same night in which the rafts had become united; and ever since,—during the three days they had been at work in the construction of the Catamaran,—the calm had continued without intermission.

On the fourth day things remained the same,—not a breath stirring from any quarter to ruffle the glassy surface of the sea; which, like a mirror, reflected the odd image of the Catamaran, with her six hogsheads set like bulwarks around her sides, and her stout mast tapering tall and solitary out of her midst.

Neither her captain,—Ben Brace of course,—nor those of her crew who were capable of reflecting on the future, and providing for its probable contingencies, regretted this inaction,—forced upon them by the continuance of the calm. Indeed, although becalmed, the "Catamarans" were not inactive. There was work worthy of their activity, and which occupied them during the whole of the day. By the aid of oars,—several of which were fortunately in their possession,—they kept the new craft in constant motion; quartering the square mile of sea-surface, upon which floated the fragments of the ill-fated Pandora.

Many a waif did they pick up, and stow away on their new craft against the contingency of some future need.

Among other "floating fragments" Ben chanced upon his own sea-chest; which secured him a change of linen,—to say nothing of a full suit of "Sunday go-ashores" and variety of knick-knacks likely to prove of service on the problematical voyage he proposed making.

The chest itself was retained to serve as a useful "locker."

The fourth day being spent in such fashion, the Catamarans retired to rest,—little William, at the request of the sailor, repeating the Lord's Prayer, and ending it, by the dictation of the latter, with a short petition for a wind that would waft them to the westward!

It seemed as if that simple petition had been heard and granted. As the sun once more rose over the ocean, its glossy surface became broken into tiny corrugations by a breeze blowing as if from the sun himself. The sail was run up the slippery mast; it was tightly sheeted home; and the Catamaran, rushing rapidly through the water, soon cleared herself from that fatal spot where the slaver had perished.

"Westward ho!" cried Ben Brace, as he saw the sail swell out, and the craft, the product of his own skill, walking proudly away through the water like a "thing of life."

"Westward ho!" simultaneously echoed Snowball and Little William; while the eyes of Lilly Lalee sparkled with joy, as she beheld the enthusiastic bearing of her companions.



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

LITTLE WILLIAM AND LILLY LALEE.

The wind was favourable in more senses than one. Besides blowing in the desired direction, it kept steady and continuous,—never rising above a gentle breeze, nor again returning to that calm from which they had just escaped, and the recurrence of which, to the captain of the Catamaran, would have been almost as unwelcome as a gale.

It was just the sort of wind for the trial of a new craft—barely ruffling the surface of the sea, and yet filling the sail till its sheet was as taut as a bow-string. As it blew direct from the east, that part of the Catamaran which Ben had christened her head was pointed due westward; and to hinder the craft from veering round, or luffing back into the eye of the wind, her builders had constructed a steering apparatus at the stern. It was simply a very large oar,—one that had appertained to the longboat of the Pandora,—placed fore and aft across the swell of the stern water-cask. It was held in that position by ropes attaching it to the cask, at the same time that they permitted it to play through the water, and perform the office of a rudder. By means of this simple contrivance,—which had been rigged before starting on her cruise,—the Catamaran could be steered to any point of the compass, and kept either before the wind, or luffed up as close to it as she was capable of sailing.

Of course it required one or other of them to be always at the "wheel," as Ben facetiously styled the steering apparatus, and the first spell of this duty the captain had taken upon himself, considering it too important,—so long as it was only on trial,—to be intrusted either to Snowball or little William. After they should get fairly under way, and there could be no longer any doubt as to the sailing qualities of the Catamaran, both the above-mentioned individuals would be expected to take their turn "at the wheel."

For more than an hour the Catamaran continued her course, without anything occurring to interrupt the "even tenor of her way." Her captain, seated in the stern, and still in charge of the steering-oar, was the only one occupied in the conduct of the craft. Snowball was busy among his stores,—most of which lay in a mass amidships,— arranging them into some sort of order, and placing each article in the most suitable position to withstand any sudden assault of the winds and waves.

Little William and Lilly Lalee were far forward against the cask which represented the head of the craft, and which, being quite empty, stood high above the surface of the water.

Neither was engaged in any particular employment,—except in talking kindly to each other, and at intervals exchanging expressions of joy at the fortune that had so singularly reunited them under two such courageous protectors.

It is true that, on board the slaver,—during that brief voyage, brought to such an abrupt and disastrous termination,—the two had seen but little of one another, and knew less. The pretty little Portuguese had been kept within the cabin, never going beyond the confines of the "quarter"; while the English lad, in continual fear of receiving rough treatment from either the captain or mates, rarely ventured within that sacred precinct unless in obedience to some command from his dreaded superiors.

Then stayed he only long enough to execute the order as speedily as possible,—knowing that to linger by the cabin would be to expose himself to rude insult,—perhaps to be pitched into the scuppers or kicked back to the forecastle.

Under such disadvantageous circumstances, it is not to be wondered at that the sailor-boy found but few opportunities of holding communication with the half-caste girl, who, by the singular chances already stated, had been his fellow-voyager on board the ill-fated bark.

Though he had held but slight converse with his youthful compagnon du voyage, and knew but little either of her moral or intellectual character, he was nevertheless most intimately acquainted with her personal appearance. There was not a feature in her pretty, sweet face, not a ringlet in her jetty curling hair, with which his eyes were not perfectly familiar.

Ofttimes had he stood,—half-screened behind the sails,—gazing upon her as she loitered by the cabin hatch, surrounded by rude ruffian forms, like a little white lamb in the midst of so many wolves.

Ofttimes had the sight caused his pulse to beat and his heart to throb with throes in which pain and pleasure were equally commingled, but the cause of which he could not comprehend.

Now, seated side by side with this young creature on board the Catamaran,—even on that frail embarkation, which at any moment might be scattered to the winds, or whelmed under the black billows of the sea,—the sailor-boy no longer felt pain while gazing in her face, but only that sweet incomprehensible pleasure.



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

TOO LATE!

Nearly two hours had transpired since the starting of the Catamaran,— during which time but little change took place in the relative positions of those on board. Then, however, Snowball having finished the stowage of his stores, proposed taking his turn at steering. The offer was willingly accepted by the sailor, who, relinquishing his hold upon the oar, went forward amidships. There he had placed his old sea-chest; and, kneeling in front of it, he commenced rummaging among its contents, with the design of making himself more familiar with them, and seeing whether he might not discover some article inside that would be serviceable under the circumstances.

William and Lilly Lalee still remained by the head,—the boy habitually keeping a lookout over the ocean, but at frequent intervals turning his glances towards her who sat by his side, and endeavouring to interest her with his conversation.

The girl could not speak English,—only a few phrases which she had picked up from English or American seamen, who had visited her father's fort upon the African coast. These, though by her repeated in all innocence, were neither of the most refined character, nor yet sufficiently comprehensive to enable her to hold any lengthened dialogue. It was in her own tongue that the conversation between her and William was carried on: for the lad had picked up a somewhat extensive vocabulary of Portuguese among the sailors of the Pandora— many of whom were of that nation. It was a sort of "lingoa geral" spoken along the seaboard of Africa,—not unlike a similar Portuguese patois, current on the coasts and large rivers of tropical South America.

In this language, little William, by the aid of signs and gestures, was able to keep up an occasional conversation with Lilly Lalee.

During the two hours which the sailor had remained at the steering-oar,—and for some time after,—no incident occurred to interrupt the tranquillity of the Catamaran's crew.

A very odd sort of fish, swimming about a cable's length ahead of the craft, had attracted the attention of William and the girl,—exciting their curiosity so much as to cause them to rise to their feet and stand watching it.

The interest which this creature had inspired was not, however, of a pleasant kind. On the contrary, both looked upon it with feelings of repugnance, almost amounting to awe; for it was in reality one of the ugliest monsters to be met with in the great deep.

In size it it as about equal to the body of a man; but much more elongated, and lessening gradually towards the tail. It seemed to possess a double quantity of fins,—lunated along their outer margins, and set thickly over its body, so as to give it a bristling aspect. Unlike other fishes, its neck was more slender than its head and shoulders,—imparting to it a sort of human shape. But it was in its head that the hideousness of the creature was more especially conspicuous; the skull being prolonged on each side outwards to the distance of several inches, and set upon its neck after the fashion of a mallet upon its shaft! At the end of these lateral protuberances appeared the eyes, with gleaming golden irides, glancing horridly to the right and left.

The mouth was not less abnormal in shape and position. Instead of being in the hideous head already described, it was in the breast,—where at intervals it could be seen yawning wide open, and displaying a quadruple row of sharp serrated teeth, that threatened instant destruction to any substance, however hard, that might chance to come between them.

Little William knew not what sort of fish it was; for though common enough in some parts of the ocean, he had not had the good or ill fortune to see one before. As his companion had put the question, however,—and also to satisfy his own curiosity,—he appealed to Ben.

The latter, raising his eyes above the top of his chest, and looking in the direction pointed out by the lad, at once recognised the animal which appeared to have attached itself as an escort to the Catamaran.

"Hammer-head!" said Ben; "a shark he be; an' the ugliest o' his ugly tribe."

Saying this, the sailor once more ducked his head under the lid of the chest, and continued his exploration,—altogether heedless of the "hammer-head," from whose proximity they had nothing to fear.

So believed Ben Brace at the moment.

It proved a feeling of false security. In less than ten minutes from that time the sailor was within six feet of the "hammer-head's" open mouth,—in imminent danger of being craunched between those quadruple tiers of terrible teeth, and taken into the monster's capacious maw.

By the phrase "hammer-head," so laconically pronounced by the captain of the Catamaran, little William recognised in the fish a creature which, although never seen by him before, he had read of in books, both of travel and natural history. It was the "hammer-head" shark, or balance-fish, so-called from the peculiar formation of its head,—the zygaena of the naturalists, and one of the most voracious of that devouring tribe to which genetically it belongs.

The individual in question was, as is already stated, about a cable's length from the raft, right ahead; and through the translucent water its form could be distinctly traced in all its hideous outlines. Swimming in the same direction, and at a like rate of speed, it preserved a regular distance from the raft; and appeared like some guide or avant courier conducting the Catamaran across the Atlantic!

William and Lalee watched the fish for a considerable time; but as no change took place either in its movements or the position it held in relation to the raft, their curiosity at length became satisfied, and their eyes were turned in a different direction.

But the gaze of the boy-sailor soon became fixed; and upon an object which caused him to give utterance to two distinct exclamations,— distinct in point of time, as different in signification. The first was an ejaculation, or rather a series of phrases expressing a jocular surprise,—the second a cry of serious alarm.

"Ho!" cried he, on turning round and glancing towards the stern of the Catamaran, "Snowball asleep! Ha! ha! ha! See the old sea-cook! Verily, that steering-oar has escaped from his hand!"

Almost instantly succeeded the shout that betokened alarm, followed by a series of hurried phrases, indicating the danger itself.

"The boom,—the boom! 'Tis coming round! Look out, Lalee! look out!"

As he gave utterance to these words of warnings the boy sprang towards his companion, with arms outstretched, to protect her.

The action came too late. The steering-oar, held in the hands of the sleeper, hung suspended high above the water. The Catamaran, left without control, luffed suddenly round beam-end to the wind; the boom obeyed the impulse of the breeze; and Lilly Lalee, uplifted upon its end, was brushed off from the craft, and jerked far out upon the blue bosom of the ocean!



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

"OVERBOARD!"

The cry came from little William, as the Portuguese girl, lifted on the end of the boom, was pitched far out into the sea.

The utterance was merely mechanical; and as it escaped from his lips, the sailor-lad rushed towards the edge of the raft, and placed himself in an attitude to plunge into the water,—with the design of swimming to the rescue of Lalee.

Just then the boom, suddenly recoiling, came back with a rapid sweep; and, striking him across the shins, sent him sprawling over the shoulders of Ben Brace, and right into the sea-chest, in front of which the sailor was still kneeling.

Ben had heard that significant cry of alarm, and almost simultaneously the "plash" made by the little Portuguese as her body dropped down upon the water. He had slewed himself round, and was making a hurried effort to get to his feet, when the boy, flung with violence upon his stooping back, once more brought him to his knees.

As William was chucked right over him into the chest the sailor soon recovered from the shock, and rising erect, cried out in a half-confused manner,—"Overboard! Who? Where? Not you, Will'm! What is't, boy?"

"O Ben! Ben!" answered William, as he lay kicking among the contents of the kit, "Lilly Lalee, she's knocked overboard by the boom! Save her! save her!"

The sailor needed neither the information nor the appeal thus addressed to him. His interrogations had been altogether mechanical, for the plunge he had heard, and the absence of the girl from the raft,— ascertained by a single glance,—told him which of the Catamaran's crew it was who had fallen overboard.

The circling eddies in the water showed him the spot where the girl had gone down; but, just as he got to his feet again, she had turned to the surface; and, uttering half-stifled screams, commenced buffeting the water with her tiny hands, in an instinctive endeavour to keep herself afloat.

In a crisis of this character, the brave English sailor was obstructed by no ambiguity as to how he should act. A single bound carried him across the Catamaran,—another landed him upon the top of one of the casks, and a third launched him six feet outward into the sea. Had he been apprised of the accident only a score of seconds sooner, less than that number of strokes would have sufficed him to reach the spot where the child had first fallen into the water. Unfortunately in the collision with little William, that had brought him back to his knees, some time had been expended. During this interval—short as it was—the craft, though under an uncontrolled sail, was still making considerable way; and when the rescuer at length succeeded in leaping from the cask, the struggling form had fallen into the wake of the Catamaran to the distance of nearly a cable's length.

If the girl could only keep afloat for a few minutes, there need be no great danger. The sailor knew that he could swim, sustaining a heavier weight than was the little Lalee. But it was evident the child could not swim a stroke, and was every moment in danger of sinking for the second time.

Her rescuer perceived this danger as he started to her aid; and therefore pressed rapidly towards her, cleaving the water with all the strength that lay in his muscular arm and limbs.

Meanwhile little William had also regained his feet; and, having extricated himself from the chest in which he had been temporarily encoffined, ran towards the after part of the raft. Quickly mounting upon the water-cask at the stern, he stood astride the steering-oar,—an anxious and trembling spectator,—his eyes alternately fixed on the strong swimmer and the struggling child.

Snowball was still dormant, buried in a slumber profound and unconscious,—such as only a "darkey" can enjoy. The cry "Overboard!" uttered by little William had made no impression upon the tympanum of his wide-spread ears,—nor the exclamations that succeeded in the harsher voice of the sailor. Equally unheard by him had been the scream coming across the water, though along with it he might have heard the utterance of his own name!

As none of these sounds had been sufficient to arouse him from his torpor, he was likely to remain for some time longer unconscious of what was occurring. The sailor swam in silence,—the cries of the child, now more distant, were growing feebler and feebler; while little William— Snowball's only companion upon the raft—was too much absorbed in the scene and its issue to allow even a breath to escape him.

In this moment of agony,—intense to all the others of the Catamaran's crew,—Snowball was sleeping as soundly and sweetly as if he had been stretched along the bench of his caboose, and rocked to rest by the undulations of a good ship going at easy sail.

Up to this time, William had not thought of awakening him; for, to say the truth, the boy had not yet quite recovered his presence of mind. The shock of consternation caused by the accident was still vibrating through his brain; and his actions, in running aft, and springing up on the cask, were half mechanical. There, enchained by the spectacle, and waiting with intense anxiety for its denouement, he had not a thought to give either to Snowball or his slumberings.

The silence continued only for a short period of time, though it may have seemed long enough both to actors and spectator in that thrilling drama. It was terminated by a cry of joyous import from the lips of little William,—in short, a loud hurrah, evoked by his seeing the swimmer come en rapport with the child, raise her sinking form above the surface, and holding it in one hand, strike out with the other in the direction of the rail.



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

SAVED!

"Brave Ben!—brave fellow! he has saved her! Hurrah!"

Whether it was the violent gestures that accompanied this ebullition of feeling that caused the water-cask to lurch from under his feet,—or whether it arose from his nervous system suddenly becoming relaxed after such a spell of intense anxiety,—certain it is that the sailor-lad, as he repeated the final "Hurrah!" lost his balance upon the task, and, staggering over, he fell with all his weight upon the prostrate body of the slumbering sea-cook.

The latter, in his sleep more sensible to touch than hearing, was at length aroused.

"Gorramity!" cried he, suddenly starting to his knees, and endeavouring to disembarrass himself of the weight of little William, still scrambling upon his back. "Gorramity! What all dis fracas 'bout? Someb'dy shout 'Hurrah?'—Ha! you, lilly Willy? you shout dat jess now? I tink I hear ye in ma 'leep. What for you hurrah? Golly! am dar a ship in sight? I hope dar am—Wha's Mass' Brace?—wha's de lilly gal? Augh?"

This string of interrogations was put in such rapid succession as to give the lad no opportunity of replying to them. But, indeed, a reply was not needed, as may be deduced from the final ejaculation of the questioner.

Snowball, having swept the surface of the Catamaran with a quick, searching glance, and missing from it not only its captain, but—what was of greater moment—his own protege, became equally the victim of surprise and consternation.

His eye was at once turned towards the water; and, like all men accustomed to the sea, was intuitively directed sternward. The missing individuals could not be elsewhere than in the wake of the craft going under sail.

He was soon satisfied of the correctness of his conjecture. On the instant of his turning he beheld Ben Brace,—or rather, only the head of that individual,—just visible above the rippling surface of the sea. Close by was another head, of smaller size, with dark ringlets floating on both sides of it, and a tiny arm stretched out and apparently clinging to the shoulder of the seaman.

Snowball needed no one—not even little William—to interpret what he saw. At a glance he comprehended what had occurred during his sleep,— all except the cause. Little did he suspect that the disaster had its origin in his own negligence. But it did not need that thought to beget within him a feeling of anxiety,—or, rather, of intense alarm.

This feeling did not arise on the instant. Seeing the girl sustained by such a strong swimmer as he knew his old shipmate to be, he had but little fear for the result,—so little that he checked his first impulse, which was to leap overboard and swim to the assistance of both.

A moment's reflection, however, satisfied him that there was still danger both for Lalee and her brave rescuer,—a danger which little William while giving utterance to that joyful "Hurrah!" had not taken into account. The lad had seen the girl picked up by the strong seaman; and, having an unlimited faith in the prowess of his own protector, he had no other thought than that the latter would soon swim back to the Catamaran, bearing his light burden along with him.

In his joy little William had overlooked the circumstance that the Catamaran was under sail, and moving through the water at a rate of speed that the swiftest swimmer, unembarrassed with the slightest weight, might in vain attempt to overtake her!

This sinister circumstance, in the excitement of the hour overlooked by the youthful sailor, was even, for a moment, unthought of by the more experienced mariner,—for Snowball, in addition to being a sea-cook, was also a competent seaman. Not for long, however, did the latter continue unconscious of the danger. Almost on the instant did he perceive it; and quickly squatting himself in front of the cask, he took hold of the steering-oar,—which he had so culpably neglected,—and, although still ignorant of the fact that his own negligence had caused the disaster, he bent all his energies towards remedying it.

Under the strong arm of the Coromantee, the Catamaran was fast coming round towards the wind,—and so shortening the distance between the swimmer and the craft,—when an object came under the eye of her steersman that caused him to drop the oar as if either his arm had become suddenly paralysed, or the piece of rounded ash grasped between his hands had become transformed into a bar of red-hot iron!

The former it could not be; since paralysed arms could not act, as did those of Snowball on that instant. On dropping the oar, his right hand was suddenly carried towards his left thigh, where a long knife hung suspended in its sheath. Upon the hilt of this his fingers rested for a moment, evidently not with the intention of drawing it, but apparently to assure himself that the knife was in its place.

In an instant the hand was withdrawn; but during the action the negro had hastily risen to his feet; and, having already abandoned the oar, he rushed towards the edge of the raft and leaped overboard into the water!



CHAPTER THIRTY.

THE ZYGAENA.

The conduct of the Coromantee in thus relinquishing the rudder and springing overboard into the sea was inexplicable,—at least, to little William it seemed so for the time. What could be Snowball's object in taking to the water? The sailor's strength was sufficient to sustain both himself and the little girl. He appeared to have no difficulty in holding her above the surface; and as to getting back to the raft, Snowball was surely doing more service in steering the raft towards them? Had he continued at the rudder a few minutes longer, the Catamaran must have come very near where the swimmer was struggling; where as, on his dropping the oar, she once more luffed round, and began to make way in the opposite direction.

Little William, however, did not observe this sinister circumstance; or if he did, it was for the moment driven out of his mind by one still more sinister, that just then came under his observation.

Only for a few seconds had he remained watching the negro, and wondering, with unpleasant thoughts, why the latter before leaping overboard had half drawn the knife from his belt and then resheathed it. Something like a suspicion passed through the mind of the youth. What could the negro want with a knife, if his object was to give help to the swimmer? Could a fiendish conception have occurred to the Coromantee, to lessen the number of those who might require food and water?