"Isabel," said Dom Maxara, at last, "I would give you a protector.

Enrico, I would give you my daughter, ere I leave you."

"Oh, dear father, think of yourself, think not of me," sobbed the heart-broken Isabel.

"I am thinking of myself. Enrico, tell your friend the missionary; ask him to come here."

Wyzinski was soon found; and there, in the small cabin, the marriage service was read, Captain Weber, whose eyes were wet with tears, being present. Isabel's voice could hardly be heard through her sobs, as she murmured the responses of the English Church. Wyzinski closed the book, and the wife's head rested on her husband's shoulder. They knelt by the bedside, the missionary praying fervently and long.

All had faced death together more than once; but here it was gradually approaching before their eyes, slowly but surely, and on that account the more terrible. The captain had left, his presence being urgently required on deck, and the low, earnest tones of the missionary sounded impressively in the cabin of the dismantled brig. By the bedside the newly-married couple kneeled. In Isabel's bosom a deep and unswerving affection had long since taken root; she had read, and read truly, too, the heart of her lover; had seen, from the first, his affection for her, and had understood the plain blunt straightforward language in which the expression of it had been couched. For her own future she entertained no doubt, now that the storm was dying away, and land in sight.

"See, Enrico, he revives," she murmured.

"It is the effect of the stimulant," replied her husband.

A violent spasm seemed to shake the dying n.o.ble's whole frame from head to foot. Extending his hands, he laid them on the heads of the two kneeling beside him; his eyes were lifted to Heaven, his lips moved, and he made an effort to speak. It was useless, for no sound issued from the white contracted lips. Again the convulsion fit pa.s.sed over his frame, the head fell back on the pillow, and the arms dropped heavily.

The rush of the water, and the heavy clank of the chain pumps, mixed with the sobs of the orphan and the low earnest prayer of the missionary alone broke the silence of the death chamber.

On deck the men were still working hard, and the clear water poured from the brig's scuppers, but there was no cheerfulness shown; they worked, it is true, but sullenly, mechanically, and without hope. The line of coast was visible from the forecastle, but the wind had fallen, and though now and then a puff would fill the foresail, yet the brig hardly had headway, rolling heavily, and seeming to right herself slowly.

Everything betokened calm, the sun pouring upon the brig's water-sodden decks, and the jagged stumps of her masts. The land was in sight, but there was no disguising the facts that her boats were smashed to pieces, and she herself was, despite the efforts of her crew, sinking under their feet.

"I see no other way," said Captain Weber, who now stood talking to his first officer on the quarter-deck. "We must have started a plank; mark how clear and green the water flows from her scuppers, and that long lazy roll."

His mate took off his cap, leisurely scratching his head. "Ay, ay, sir," he replied, "either one of the yards has poked a hole through her bottom, or one of that scoundrel's eighteen-pounders has done more damage than we thought."

"She is settling down fast, Lowe. If we had only a breeze we would beach the old barky, but it is impossible."

"Quite impossible, Captain Weber. If you will take my advice, knock off the pumps, and set all hands to work to make a raft. Let us save what we can," earnestly replied the mate.

Captain Weber's face was very sad. With the brig was lost the savings of a life, and he carefully turned over in his mind all the circ.u.mstances. He looked over the side and noticed with a sigh how deep the "Halcyon" lay in the water, and how sluggish was her motion. He noted the idle sail as it hung against the broken foremast, and the clank of the chain pumps came to his ear, as the clear salt-water flooded the deck.

The old seaman groaned.

"There is nothing for it, Lowe," he muttered. "Keep the pumps going; half the hands will do the work. Serve out a good allowance of grog.

Get the masts out of her, and let us have them alongside. The old brig won't miss them."

"Ay, ay, sir," cheerfully replied the mate, walking aft among the men.

"Morris," continued the captain, addressing the carpenter, "send up all the spare spars you have, and we will use the planking of the forecastle to make a staging for the raft. Rig out a pair of sheers amidships."

All was now bustle aboard the brig. The men, who had worked at the pumps sullenly, because they knew that despite all they could do the leak was gaining fast on them, now found themselves employed in securing their own safety. The remains of the fore and mainmast were soon floating alongside, and, with a number of spare yards and heavier spars, formed a solid basis to work upon. Across these were placed a second layer of lighter spars, and the whole secured firmly. The planking of the deck forward, where it had been partially torn up by the grinding of the fore-topmast, was easily removed, and completed a kind of deck, raised two feet at least above the water. A royal yard was rigged as a mast, and stancheons were fixed round the edges of the platform, through which ropes were run. The arms were got on deck, and the best being selected were, with a liberal supply of ammunition, placed on the raft.

Some loose sails were thrown in, provisions of every kind added, and as there was room for treble the number of men on the floating spars, several heavy cases, the contents of which were known only to the captain, were stowed away on the raft.

Night came on, and one by one the stars shone out. A long gentle swell was all that remained of the late storm, and the brig, barely rising to it, rolled clumsily and heavily. The men had behaved well. There had been a question raised, when they were tired of the pumps, and found that, work as hard as they might, it was useless, of breaking into the spirit-room; it had been soon disposed of, however, and each and all had worked cheerfully.

Crew and pa.s.sengers were on deck. Isabel had been speaking in a pleading tone, while the dark ma.s.s of timber alongside was as yet not tenanted.

"I cannot bear to think of what remains of my poor father being left here. We are close to land; let me, at least, see him laid to rest in African soil."

"Dearest Isabel, your wish is law to me, and the desire is a natural though I think a wrong one. We don't know when we may reach land, and the sad sight will but increase your grief. Believe me, dearest, it is useless."

Isabel looked up into her husband's face.

"My first request," she murmured.

The look was irresistible; and Hughes walked forward to where Captain Weber stood, among his crew, completing his last dispositions.

"Captain Weber, can we not take the remains of Dom Maxara on sh.o.r.e for burial?"

"What use will it be? The old barky, with all she contains, will soon be at the bottom of the sea, and so much of my future and hopes go with her, that I should not much care if I went also."

"Still, it is the daughter's wish," urged Hughes.

The men stood grouped around on the deck, the pumps had been left, and the brig was rolling so heavily on the swell that it was time to leave her.

"Well, well! be it as you wish. Here, Anderson, and you, Forrest, come here;" and the seaman gave his directions.

The two sailors hesitated. They joined their comrades. A low whispered conversation ensued. He who had been called Forrest stepped forward, and scratching off his tarpaulin, twisted it in his hands.

"Well, what is it, Forrest?" asked the captain.

"Please your honour, if so be as I may make bold, we've had a run of ill luck of late."

"I know that, none better; but what has that got to do with you?"

"The gentleman has lost the number of his mess, d'ye see, and it's an onlucky thing to begin a new voyage with a corpse aboard."

"Ay, ay, Captain Weber," chimed in the rest, "we dare not set sail on yonder sticks with never a keel beneath our feet, and only a rag of canvas for sail, and that, too, with a corpse aboard."

The group of men were standing at the gangway, and the captain turned to them, speaking in a loud voice.

"Your duty, Forrest, is to obey my orders. The ship is sinking under our feet, but while a stick of her remains floating they shall be obeyed. Do your duty."

The men turned, but seemed mutinous, and once more the muttered conversation began, when, gliding down the ladder, Isabel stood among them. She had heard what pa.s.sed.

"I was wrong, Enrico; tell these brave men I was wrong. My father could not have a n.o.bler coffin than this. Speak to them, Enrico."

Hughes did so, and a hearty cheer was given by the crew.

"And now," said Captain Weber, greatly relieved, "we must leave the poor old brig. Are you ready?"

"I would say good bye to my father, Enrico," murmured Isabel; "have we time?"

The three entered the little cabin, the missionary having joined them, and they stood for the last time by the side of the dead. A lamp burned feebly, lighting up dimly the small bed where the body lay. The grey hairs were carefully combed out, the eyes were closed, for a daughter's hands had been busy there. The features wore a composed, but haughty look, and one or two deep stains alone told of the violent nature of his death.

Isabel sobbed bitterly, while the missionary prayed. The door opened, and Captain Weber entered. Stooping over the dead form, Isabel imprinted one long kiss on the cold lips, and, in an agony of grief, cast herself into the soldier's arms.

"Enrico,--thou alone art left to me," she sobbed.

Captain Weber threw the broad folds of the Union Jack over the dead; the light was left burning, and the party--Isabel sobbing as if her heart would break--pa.s.sed through the deserted cabin where the water was already washing about, and, reaching the deck, went over the side on to the raft. It was time, for the brig was very low in the water, and as the captain stood on the gangway, the last man on deck, an explosion took place below. It was the pent-up air forced by the increasing ma.s.s of water to find an escape, blowing down the screens and bulkheads. The old seaman raised his hat, took one look around him, and then stepped on to the raft. "Shove off, my lads," he cried, as with long planks ripped from the deck and hastily fashioned into sweeps, the men bore her away from the brig's side.