Eleven months soon became fourteen, and
during all those fourteen months the fire was
never allowed to go out by night or by day. But,
more than once when the fire was on the point of
expiring, both of them became so punctilious
about their proper turn of duty, that neither
would stir to put a stick upon it. Paine declared
that it was Proudfoot's turn, and Proudfoot
insisted with an oath that it was Paine's. Then,
as the dread of its total extinction came
upon them, both would spring up and heap on
wood together. Books they had none, and all
their "yarns" were worn out. It was a wretched
life. Their only amusement was to talk of home
and the past, in which Proudfoot sustained a
monosyllabic part. They began to dread daily
that their rotten lines and rough hooks would
soon wear out, and then they would have to revert
to roasted eggs and rain-water.

At the end of fourteen months another vessel
was seen to approach the island. Once more
the hearts of the abandoned mariners were
buoyed up with hope, and once more they
heaped their signal-fire with fuel. Paine and
Proudfoot now prepared, as before, to quit the
scene of their trials, and were at the height of
exultation, when the vessel, after standing in
for some time, bore away. Despair now took
the place of joy, and they were on the point of
giving all up as hopeless, when she tacked, and
again stood in for the shore.

The suspense of the two men was now terrible.
They both remained silently watching her
movements with mingled feelings of joy and hope
and misgiving; but hope predominated. As
soon as the ship had approached sufficiently
near, a boat was lowered, and rowed towards
the fire, near which they stood. The surf was
running so high that it could not come near
enough for her crew to land, or for the two men
to reach her. The officer in charge hailed them,
and in his voice Paine unmistakably recognised
that of an old schoolmate and shipmate of his.
As a remarkable coincidence, it happened that the
captain of this very ship (the Palmyra), on leaving
England, had received instructions to make
inquiries, when he should reach the eastern seas,
regarding Paine especially, and, if he could be
found, to bring him home. Keeping this in
view, the officer in charge of the boat asked
Paine, who had answered his hail, if that were
not his name. For some reason utterly
inexplicable, Paine answered that it was not. He was
then asked if he had not been abandoned there
by the Hunter. Paine denied this too, but the
officer said that he knew better.

No further time was wasted in parleying, and
the two men were desired to wade into the surf
and swim off to the boat, which could approach
no nearer without being swamped. Proudfoot
could swim well, and obeyed the order at once;
but Paine was unable to swim a stroke.
Nevertheless, better be drowned than left behind,
and he made the best he could of the matter,
by wading and splashing through the surf
towards the boat. He lost all consciousness as to
how he got on board in safety, but, to use his
own words, he was "hauled into the boat
somehow or other," and there he found Proudfoot.
The boat was then rowed off to the
ship.

As their dreary and inhospitable abode
receded from the view, and they found themselves
certain of safety and of home, some touch of
regret mingled with their joy. They even
thought of the remnant of salt on the island,
of the rusty nail hooks, and the almost decayed
seal-skin lines which had formed their rude fishing-
tackle. The long undying watch-fire, still
alight, moved them. Their old friends the sea-
birds, that had so long furnished them with food,
circled above the rocks, screeching out a wild
farewell.

No sooner had they reached the deck of the
Palmyra, than all on board crowded around
them, and viewed them with as much astonishment
as the natives of San Salvador viewed the
companions of Columbus. The captain gave
orders for due provision for their comfort, as far
as eating and sleeping went; but requested that
they would not wash, shave, or dress, but would
appear before him in the morning exactly as
they then were, for he wished to see them by
daylight; it being now close upon night, they
were taken below. In the morning they were
brought before the captain again, and, as it
fortunately happened there was an artist on
board, they were sketched as they stood; after
which they washed, shaved, and once more
dressed.

The ship reached Calcutta in safety.
Considerable interest was manifested by the citizens
of that place in the strange history of the two
men. They were lionised to such an extent, that
when passing through the streets they were
followed by crowds. But this was not all; a
subscription was raised in their behalf, which swelled
to a goodly amount, and placed them far
beyond the reach of want for a long time. Paine
and Proudfoot then parted. Where the latter
went Paine hardly knew, nor did Paine ever see
or hear of or from his companion in misery
afterwards. Paine himself came to England, and
has gone through a series of adventures since,
the relation of which, as he himself said, would
occupy days. Should any traveller to or from the
East, tarrying at Gibraltar, be desirous of
conversing with him, and hearing his eventful
history from his own lips, they will find James
Paine on board the sheer hulk Santa Anna, in the
harbour.

Mr. Paine is a jolly-looking mariner of the old
school, hale and hearty, and fully as ready to brave
the battle and the breeze as he was thirty-seven
years ago. The sheer hulk Santa Anna, of which
he is master, is quite as remarkable as himself;
being a very large Spanish East Indiaman of the
olden time, mastless, of course, and about the
colour as the coal with which she is laden.
Mr. Paine has now been eighteen years on board