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The “Halcyon.”

The coast of Africa, as seen from the sea, is never very prepossessing; and the sandy spit of land, with the equally sandy bar, which obstructs the entrance to the Zambesi at Quillimane, is no exception to the rule, while the banks of the river are low and flat, dotted here and there with tall cocoa-palms, and haunted by alligators. The town itself, or rather village, for it can hardly boast of any more sounding name, consists of a few better-class houses, one of which was owned by Dom Assevédo, and a number of half-ruinous huts and sheds. The anchorage is unsafe, and often untenable, while the low-lying land is a hot-bed of fever. Outside the bar, her two anchors down, the blue peter at her fore, and the English Union Jack floating at her gaff, rode the brig “Halcyon.” She was a rakish-looking craft, her long low black hull rising on the waves, and showing from time to time her bright clean copper as she rolled. Her masts raked slightly off, her sharp bows and sides round as an apple, told the seaman at once that she must be a dry ship, and her breadth of beam, if needed, attested the fact. Every bit of brass work on board was as usual rubbed bright as gold, every rope was carefully coiled down, and her decks white as snow. The “Halcyon” would not, in fact, as she rode to her anchors off the bar at Quillimane, have disgraced herself, even had she been, as she once was, her Majesty’s gun brig “Torch.”

Sold out at a time when the system of steam was rapidly changing the aspect of the navy, the “Torch” was nearly new. Bought by a Liverpool firm, she had been thoroughly overhauled and fitted out for a three years’ cruise on the African coast, trading in ivory, gold dust, and ostrich feathers.

Captain Weber, an old sailor of thirty years’ standing, commanded and partly owned her, and on such a voyage of course great latitude had been allowed him.

His three years’ trading voyage ended, and bound for the Cape, but intending once more to touch at Delagoa Bay, he had been induced to delay his departure in consideration of the handsome sum offered by the Portuguese nobleman returning from his tour of inspection of the stations on the Zambesi.

Captain Weber, as has been already mentioned, was a middle-sized stout built man, with a reddish mahogany-coloured face, and long grey hair. He was proud of his brig, lived for her, and believed in her capabilities to an unlimited extent. His first-mate, Thomas Blount, was a young man for his station in life, rather tall, and, as we have already seen, fond of dress. The two were leaning over the bulwarks, looking towards the land, one afternoon, three days after the events just narrated. The crew, which was a strong one, consisting of twenty hands, all told, were between decks.

“Our passengers should arrive this afternoon. Dom Assevédo’s messenger said so, did he not, Captain Weber?”

“Yes, and that haze to the southward and eastward tells of a blow. It will be a foul wind for us. We must make sail before sunset, Mr Blount.”

“I think,” remarked the younger man, “I see a boat crossing the bar, there, right over that Madras fellow’s stern.”

“Well, I hope it may be them. We have more fever on board than I care to see, and I hate this hot, unhealthy hole. Rouse up the watch, Mr Blount, and heave short at once.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the mate, touching his cap, round which ran a narrow strip of gold lace, and moving away.

The captain remained where he was, watching the black specks, for there were three of them, rising and falling on the waves outside Quillimane bar. The decks of the brig were no longer deserted, and the shipping of the capstan bars told that the orders just given were being carried out.

“Bring to, starboard cable,” called the first officer from the quarter-deck.

“Ay, ay, sir,” was the ready response, for the seamen were tired of riding at anchor off the bar, and the click of the capstan, as they stamped round to a merry tune of the flute, was music to officers and men alike.

“Up and down, sir,” was the cry of the second mate, who on the forecastle was superintending the duty of heaving up the anchor, and which term meant that the brig was right over her anchor.

“Heaving away, sir,” came again the cheering shout, as the anchor left the ground and the men strained every nerve to run the heavy mass up to the brig’s bows.

The flute rang out a merrier tune, round and round went the capstan bars, then came the second officer’s loud shout of “Heaving in sight, sir,” as the men suddenly stopped in their merry round.

“Cat and fish the anchor, Mr Lowe. Bring to the port cable. Heave short,” were the brief words of command from the quarter-deck.

“All ready with the cat, sir,” was the responsive shout, soon followed by the customary words, “All ready with the fish, sir,” while the men, the starboard anchor being got on board, duly secured, or, in more nautical terms, catted and fished, clapped on the port or remaining anchor, which now alone held the brig, gently rolling to the swell, and that in its turn being soon up and down, Mr Blount reported to his superior officer.

“Do you make out the boats, sir?” he added, as Captain Weber still remained looking towards shore.

“Ay, ay,” replied the seaman. “There’s Dom Assevédo’s barge, the lubberly Portuguese blowing and puffing like grampus at their oars.”

“Rig out a tackle from the main yard. We shall have to hoist the lady in, and perhaps the Dom too, like a bale of cotton.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the mate.

“Make sail, Mr Blount; brace up the headyards. Let me know when you are ready.”

Ten minutes later the passengers were on board, and Dom Assevédo’s barge veered astern.

“It’s rather hard I can’t speak to my lady passenger,” said Weber, as he went down below with the party.

“Tell him I can understand English, though I am afraid to speak it,” said Isabel in French to Hughes, who was by her side.

“Ay, ay, my pretty one, we’ll soon take the shame-faced-ness out of you; nothing like blue water for doing that. Well, you tell the Dom that I’ll send all his traps below. Senhor Assevédo, I can’t give you much law,” said the old seaman, in his rough hearty tones, as he turned to return to his post. “Steward, show the lady her berth. Look alive, man,” he continued, calling down the hatchway.

The brig was now riding at single anchor, the headyards braced up one way, her afteryards the other, her sails flapping heavily.

“Heave away, my lads, heave away with a will,” shouted Weber, the moment his foot touched the quarter-deck, and the remaining anchor was soon hove up, and properly stowed away on board. “Brace round the headyards. Let fall the fore course. Take a pull at the bowlines, Mr Blount. Touch her with the wheel, Adams, she will come up a couple of points yet,” were the rapid words of command, and the “Halcyon” moved through the water on a taut bowline, heading nearly her course.

“A pleasant voyage to you,” said Dom Assevédo, as he bent over Isabel’s hand in the cabin.

“Below there!” came in the captain’s rough tones, “tell the Senhor Assevédo that if he don’t want to see the Cape, he had better get on board his barge. The tow-rope won’t hold on long, I’m thinking.”

Heartily shaking hands with all, the Portuguese gentleman, whose name and kindly nature are well known to men of every nation trading on the Zambesi, stepped over the side, the boat’s painter was cast off, a last good bye shouted in Weber’s stentorian voice, and the “Halcyon,” with all sail set, to her royals, was soon standing off the bar, the bubbles flying past her rounded counter, as she slipped through the water at the rate of sonde six knots an hour.

Towards sunset the wind fell, and the brig began to lose her way. The stars came out shining through a thin haze, and sail after sail flapped against the masts, filling for a moment, then collapsing again, until soon the “Halcyon” lay rolling on the gentle swell, her cordage rattling, her blocks and tackles striking against her spars and rigging, her hull groaning, and her sails perfectly useless, not having even steerage way.

Leaning over the bulwarks, and looking towards the land, the faint outline of which could still be discovered about ten miles distant, Hughes was conversing with the captain.

“You think, then, we shall have wind?” he asked.

“I am sure of it,” replied Weber; “look at the double halo round the moon, look at the sickly, watery appearance of the clouds, look at that fog-bank away to the southward. We shall have plenty of wind before morning.”

“And from what direction?”

“Dead against us,” replied the seaman; “we want to run to the south, and the wind will blow from that quarter.”

“You have a beautiful craft, Captain Weber, and one I know can show weatherly qualities.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the captain, slapping his hand down on the bulwark, “I love every stick the jade carries, every rope-yarn aboard of her; while I am at sea, she is wife and children to me. Do you hear the wind sighing aloft? You would do well to persuade the lady to turn in.”

Wyzinski, Dom Francisco, and Isabel were walking on the quarter-deck deeply engaged in conversation, and enjoying the freshness of the night.

“I did not think I should ever look back to the Zambesi with pleasure,” said Isabel, as Hughes joined the party; “but really, the unostentatious hospitality we received from Senhor Assevédo will always be remembered by me. It is a magnificent river, and I am sure must be fully half a mile wide in some parts. The coolness of the air, too; I never thought to see European vegetables, such as peas and cabbages, growing side by side with the mango and banana.”

“Ah, with its plains of wild cotton, which no one takes the trouble to cultivate, its sugar-canes, indigo, and droves of splendid cattle, the country bordering on the Zambesi might be a very rich one,” said Wyzinski.

“Which, otherwise worded, means if the colony belonged to the English instead of the Portuguese, Senhor,” tartly remarked Dom Francisco.

“Not so, Senhor de Maxara; the English in South Africa have failed in many things, as regards colonisation, nor could I be guilty of such a thought.”

“The object of my mission is to draw up a report as to the capabilities of the land, and I hope a new day may now dawn for the Portuguese colonies in South Africa,” said the noble. “The country is rich in mineral products. Cattle and animals of all kinds abound in the plains, while coal, gold, iron, and copper could be procured for the labour of taking them,” he continued; “but that is Captain Weber, is it not, leaning over the bulwarks; will you go with me, Senhor, and serve me as interpreter? I wish much to thank him for the arrangements he has made for our comfort.”

Hughes thus left with Dona Isabel, a silence ensued. The sails were banging loosely in the brails, flapping against the masts, for the night was perfectly calm, but still there was the never ceasing throb of the ocean, causing the brig to roll lazily, the cordage and blocks to strain and creak, the studding sail booms to rattle, and the timbers of the stout brig herself to groan and moan.

“I was wondering, Senhora,” said Hughes, breaking the silence at last, “what made you think of a voyage to so remote a region as Africa?”

“Oh, that is easily told. My father has a long pedigree, but a cramped estate. Our Portuguese nobility are mostly in the same position. My mother, of the old and princely house of the Guzmans, died when I was quite a child, and my life has been passed with an aunt, in France. She, too, died, and the convent of the Augustine sisters was no longer a home for me; besides, my education was finished.”

“I wish it had comprised the English language, Senhora,” said Hughes, smiling.

“I wish it had, too, for I should like to talk to Captain Weber,” replied the girl, laughing. “To continue, my father was honoured with his present mission, and was about to refuse it on my account. It may lead to a definite appointment, and as he never denies me anything, I easily persuaded him to accept, and to let me accompany him.”

The brig’s bows had been during the last hour all round the compass, but at that moment she lay with her head to the southward. A heavy puff of hot wind struck her suddenly, taking her aback and giving her sternway, the studding sail booms snapping off short in the irons, the broken ends with their gear coming tumbling down, those of the mainyard falling on the quarter-deck. The whole was over in an instant.

“In with the studding-sails, my lads, look alive,” called the captain, as the watch on deck busied themselves with the useless sails.

“You will excuse me, gentlemen,” said Captain Weber, “that puff is but a precursor of the wind that is to follow, and I must get the sails off the brig.”

Taking off his cap politely, the captain turned to his work, while, with a ceremonious salute, Dom Maxara offered his arm to his daughter to conduct her below.

“Good night, gentlemen, we shall meet again in the morning,” said the noble. A pressure of the hand, a low “Good night,” a silvery toned voice repeating the word, and Captain Hughes found himself alone, gazing over the bulwarks into the blue sea, and thinking.

Thinking of Isabel, of course. Then she was not rich, and he was glad of it. But why should he be glad? for he was not rich himself, and beyond a few hundreds a year and his pay, he had nothing to boast of. What on earth did Dona Isabel’s position matter to him? A fair wind and the brig would spread her wings. A few days and the party would separate at the Cape, in all probability never to meet again. She was of an ancient race, the blood of the Guzmans mantled in that blush. Well, he, too, was of old Welsh blood, and could count kith and kin up to the days when the Druids held their unholy rites and sacrifices on the heights of Penmaenmawr and Snowdon, when Caswallon Là Hir, his ancestor, wandered through the forests of Caerleon and Bodysgallen, clad in his mantle of skins. But what was that to him, and what had he to do with the blood of the Guzmans? He would think of other matters.

Again his thoughts wandered, and, as he gazed into the blue ocean, he called up a picture of another land. The lofty rugged mountains of Snowdonia, the iron-bound coast, washed by the waves of the Irish Channel, the ebbing and flowing waters of the Menai Straits, a house which had stood the wear and tear of ages, embowered in its trees near the beautiful Conway. Would Dona Isabel—pshaw!

“Take a pull at the larboard braces, let fly the fore and main royal halyards. In with the canvas, my lads. Starboard the helm,” shouted the captain, as the breeze from the south struck the brig, filling her remaining canvas, and making her heel over, as she gradually gathered way. “Steady! so!” and the bubbles began to glide by the vessel’s side, the noise of the water slapping up against her bows, and the rattle of the blocks and tackle, as the canvas filled, and everything drawing, the “Halcyon,” close hauled, on a taut bowline, stood her course as near as possible.

Gradually the wind freshened, and when Hughes and Captain Weber turned in at midnight, the “Halcyon” was working her way through the seas crested with foam, in that peculiar jerking manner usual to vessels close hauled; but with little cargo, and what there was light, she made splendid weather of it, topping the great waves, or wallowing in the trough, though, as Captain Weber emphatically observed, slapping his hand down on the cabin hatchway, “She didn’t ship an egg-spoonful of water.”

“Hands by the royal sheets and halyards. In royals. Mr Lowe, see to the royal braces,” were the words heard, as the two stepped below, about midnight. Morning was scarcely dawning over the ocean as Captain Weber again made his appearance on deck. According to a seaman’s instinct, his first glance was directed aloft, his second to the compass.

“Ah, I thought you would have a reef in the topsails before morning, Blount, and I see I am right.”

“We had better go about soon, Captain Weber,” replied the mate; “there is a little westing in the gale since midnight, and the brig has lain up a couple of points.”

“We will stand on until we make the coast of Madagascar, Blount; we must have made a good deal of southing, there are no islands between us and the coast, except ‘Barren Islands,’ and they lie far away to the northward.”

“How’s her head now, Jones?” asked the mate.

“South-east and by south, sir,” replied the man at the wheel.

“Then we shall fetch Cape Saint Vincent on the Madagascar coast; and it will have been a long leg.”

It was a grand sight as the little “Halcyon” struggled through the chaos of water. The change in the wind, slight as it was, had greatly aided her, but the gale was gradually increasing. Overhead the heavy clouds were flying before its fury, the long waves being an angry green, white with foam. Far as the eye could reach, one sheet of tumbling water was to be seen, bounded only by the horizon. No sail, not even a solitary gull was in sight, and through this the “Halcyon” was straggling, now rising on the foam, now falling into the bright green trough, as she dragged her way onward through the seething ocean, under her single-reefed topsails, foresail, fore-topmast-staysail, and boom-mainsail.

On swept the little brig, but the gale increased in its fury after sunrise. Towards twelve o’clock, the Senhora Isabel appeared on the quarter-deck, whither she had been conducted by the first-mate. The men of the watch lay close under the weather bulwarks, seeking what shelter they could find. A good many teaspoonfuls of salt foam came dashing on board the brig now, and even the captain was forced to allow it, as he held on by the weather main-shrouds, and looked keenly to windward.

“What a magnificent spectacle!” exclaimed Isabel, as she gazed on the seething ocean.

“At all events we are better here than riding with both anchors down at Quillimane,” replied the mate.

A report like the boom of a heavy gun was heard above the gale, and the foresail was seen flying away to leeward, blown to ribbons. A heavier blast weighed down upon the struggling brig, and before a word could be spoken, the bolts of the futtock shrouds, drawing one after another, with a splintering crash down came the fore-topmast with all its rigging and hamper, dragging with it the main-topgallant mast, and carrying away the jib-boom, the whole mass falling bodily over the side.

In an instant the watch were on their legs, and the remainder of the crew poured on deck, speedily followed by the alarmed passengers.

The captain stood for a moment surveying the wreck, and then with the true spirit of an old salt, accepted the situation.

“Keep her away,” he shouted to the two men at the wheel; “let her go free. Steady, my lads! Out axes and cut away the wreck. Pass the word below for the sail-maker to send up a new foresail.”

The wreck of the masts was now dragging under the brig’s lee, thumping heavily against her sides. Quick as thought the first-mate sprung forward, and, seizing an axe, began cutting away the ropes which kept the spars dragging after the ship. Holding on by the shrouds, the bright steel did its work, and no longer close hauled, but running free, the brig’s motion seemed much easier. Already a portion of the wreck was floating astern, a few ropes alone held the rest, and one by one they were severed, when a monster wave came rolling on towards the brig. The captain’s warning voice was heard far above the roar of the winds and waves, shouting to all to hold on. The mate alone did not hear him, as he raised his axe to sever the last rope. The blow fell, but at the same moment the brig plunged her bows into the green wave. Striking her on the counter, the vessel seemed to tremble and to pause in her career, as the green water curled over her bows and bulwarks, in one mass of white foam, falling in tons upon her deck, and rolling away to leeward, poured out of her scuppers. The little brig seemed pressed down into the ocean by the enormous weight of water, and as the wave rolled aft, there, battling with the foam, was the form of the gallant mate. Swept from his hold, the white face rose on the wave close to the brig, and Isabel screamed with horror as the helpless man, tossed about, like a cork and apparently not a yard from them, came surging along, the lips parting, and the words, “Save me! save me!” distinctly borne on the wind.

Quick as thought, Captain Weber caught up a coil of rope; his arm was in the act of casting it, when the mass of spars and cordage swept past. The coil whistled through the air, it fell right over the mate’s shoulder, he clutched at it as the fore-topmast crosstrees, with the full force of the surge, struck him from behind, and he sank like a stone.

A cry of terror ran through the brig, all for a moment forgetting their own danger in the horror of the scene.

“Silence, fore and aft,” shouted the old captain, his grey hairs streaming in the wind. “Heave the brig to, Mr Lowe. This is no place for you, lady; let the steward lead you below. All danger is over.”

“Land ho!” shouted one of the men forward, as Isabel disappeared down the hatchway.

“Where away?” asked the master.

“Broad on the port bow,” was the answering shout.

“It is the high land of Cape Saint Vincent,” said Captain Weber, shading his eyes, and gazing intently in the direction named.

The wind was increasing in violence, and the barometer in the captain’s cabin still falling. The brig had been kept away, and was now running free, but the gale was increasing rapidly.

“See that the fore and main-staysails are properly bent,” called the captain.

“Ay, ay, sir,” came the ready response, as his officer stepped hastily forward.

It is always a ticklish thing to heave a vessel to when there is a heavy sea running. The brig’s sails were reduced until she was stripped to her close-reefed main-topsails, her fore-staysail was then set, and the two officers exchanged places, the old captain sprang forward, and holding on by the weather fore-shrouds, gazed wistfully over the ocean, while his mate stood near the man-at-wheel, waiting the coming order.

Sea after sea struck her, dashing the glittering spray high into the air, and wetting the veteran sailor to the skin, as he stood anxiously gazing over the ocean. At length a moment came when the long waves seemed less heavy. Captain Weber seized it, and a motion of the hand was enough.

“Down with the helm, Adams, hard down,” shouted the watchful mate.

The brig flew up to the wind. “Set the main-staysail!” was the order thundered from the quarter-deck, and steadily executed by the trained seaman, the brig being soon hove-to under her main-topsail, fore and main-staysails, making comparatively good weather of it, and everything seemed to settle down into its usual order on board the little craft.

“He was a gallant fellow, and would have made a thorough seaman,” said Captain Weber, as he joined the party below, dashing the salt foam from his eyes and hair as he spoke. “He loved the sea, and left a quiet home to find a grave here in the Indian Ocean.” Isabel seemed violently affected by the scene which had passed before her eyes.

“His was a sailor’s death, it may be ours to-morrow,” continued the captain. “Poor Blount! he was to have had command of one of his father’s ships next voyage.”

“What do you think of the weather, Captain Weber?” asked Hughes, wishing to change the theme, for Isabel was sobbing convulsively, as the thought of the sorrowing parents came vividly before her.

“These blows seldom hold long, from the fact of their extreme violence. Should it last we shall be jammed down on the Madagascar coast: indeed, we cannot be far from it, for the land hereaway is low, or we should have sighted it at daylight.”

“Shall we feel the loss of our spars much?” inquired Wyzinski.

“Not so much while lying to; but our wings are nicely clipped. The ‘Halcyon’ has been at sea, trading on this coast, for nearly three years, without ever having the advantage of a good overhaul, or such an accident could never have happened.”

During the whole day, however, the gale continued unabated, and the dinner table was a neglected one by all save the captain. The party had been so lately at sea, as to escape all sufferings from sea-sickness, but the roar of the waves, the rattling of the ropes and blocks, the howling of the wind, and the many noises incidental to a gale, prevented, in a certain measure, even conversation. Every now and then a mass of water would tumble inboard with a loud thud, as it deluged the brig’s decks and washed away to leeward. The staysails, too, as the vessel fell into the deep trough of the angry waves, would flap with a report like distant thunder; in a word, all the discomforts of a heavy gale in a small vessel were making themselves felt.

Night had again set in, and in the cabin Dom Maxara sat, his head thrown back and his eyes closed, as though asleep, while his daughter, lying on a sofa, covered with shawls, was endeavouring to read. It was nearly midnight, but no one thought of retiring. At the table, close under a lamp, which was waving wildly to and fro, the captain was seated, intently studying a government map, while Wyzinski leaned over his shoulders in earnest conversation.

“There,” said Captain Weber, as he placed a pin in the chart, “there is just where the brig is.”

“And yet it was only this morning land was sighted,” observed the other.

“There exist strong currents, which have set us bodily to leeward; the wind, too, has more westing in it, and is driving us down on the land. It is but a question of time.”

“If the wind has drawn more to the westward, could we not hold our course!”

“As I said some time since, the brig has been three years at sea without an overhaul. If you had asked me the same question this morning, I should have expressed every confidence in her powers, but you saw yourself the sticks go over the side like rotten carrots, and I should have to carry every rag we could set to claw off this shore, for I don’t want to scud before the gale if it can be avoided.”

“Many years ago,” said Wyzinski, “I was one of a party of missionaries who sailed from Delagoa Bay with the intention of forming a mission on the island of Madagascar. The small vessel which carried us was commanded by a man who had traded with the natives, and who knew the coast well. He ran into a beautiful bay, all but land-locked, where we anchored, and remained for nearly a month.”

“What course did you steer after leaving Delagoa Bay—can you remember?”

Wyzinski was silent, evidently trying to recall long-past events, while Isabel had let her book fall on to the sofa by her side, and, with her limited stock of English, was evidently trying to catch the meaning of the conversation. Above all came the wild roar of the waves’ boiling around them, the groaning and creaking of the ship’s timbers, and the boom of the fore-staysail as it shook in the wind.

“Our course lay north-east and by north,” at length said Wyzinski, his thoughtful face raised to the lamp, “for the first twenty-four hours.”

“Good,” answered Captain Weber, ruling off the course on the chart. “There, that would carry you to somewhere about the latitude of Cape Correnti, and then?”

“It is almost impossible for me to remember,” replied the missionary; “but to the best of my recollection it was east north-east.”

The old captain bent over the chart, once more using the pencil and ruler.

“That would bring you within a short distance of Saint Augustine’s Bay, as it is marked in this chart,” said he, looking upwards at Wyzinski.

“That’s it! That’s the name we gave it, because the vessel was called the ‘Saint Augustine!’” exclaimed the missionary.

“Can you give me any particulars about the entrance to the harbour?”

“None: we ran straight in and straight out. There are two clumps of trees to the right on the spit of land which sweeps into the sea, forming a natural breakwater.”

“To starboard or port?” asked Weber.

“On the right as we ran in, and the vessel passed so close to the bluff on which they stood that I could have thrown a piece of money on shore.”

“What tonnage was the ‘Saint Augustine’? Hitherto you have called her only a vessel.”

“She was a schooner of about one hundred and fifty tons,” answered Wyzinski; “and that is all I can tell you about the matter, which is a very melancholy one for me, as I lost a dear friend.”

“Killed by the natives, I suppose? Ay, ay, they are a bad lot; but I have a couple of guns on board, and I don’t fear them. If the harbour is what you represent it, we should lie there on an even keel, and in forty-eight hours I could rig out a jury fore-topmast.”

The captain rose, and turned to Isabel before he placed on his head the heavy sou’-wester. “We will have you in smooth water before this time to-morrow, my little lady,” he said, as he turned.

Isabel smiled, and looked to the missionary for an explanation.

Drawing a stool to the side of the sofa, for standing was no easy matter, so violently did the brig pitch, he explained to her exactly what had passed.

“Oh dear, how glad I shall be!” she answered. “The noise and confusion wear one out. I have often wished to witness a severe storm at sea, but I shall never wish it again.”

“I have been in many, but only one when the wind was more violent than this. Fourteen vessels, large and small, were sunk in Table Bay on that occasion.”

“Did I understand you rightly that you have landed on the Madagascar coast?”

“Yes,” replied Wyzinski; “but it is a sad tale of cruelty and death.”

“Would it pain you to tell it me?” asked Isabel, in her low sweet tones, turning her dark eyes on the missionary’s face, and laying her hand on his arm.

“When we lie in Saint Augustine’s Bay, and I can make myself heard better than at present, I will do so. Try to sleep now,” answered the missionary, rising. “I am going on deck to join Captain Hughes, and shall be very glad when morning dawns.”