the tempests overhead, that a seaman had more
need of it than any one. Why, who knows how
much we shall want of prayer before the night
is done, and this frail plank — "

"Oh, come," I said, "I don't pay my sailors to
preach to me. Of course, I don't object to
prayer and piety. It depends on the sincerity,
my friend. You see, I hate cant. Now, I have
observed that your heart is full of animosity to
that young man there. I see it in your really
ferocious looks."

"I dare say, sir," he said, humbly; "and it
is what I do feel at moments when the Lord
withdraws his strength. I have naturally a
vile, wicked temper, full of the most frightful
passions. But I wrestle with it, thank the
Lord. I forgive him; that is, I try to forgive
him. And I struggle with my own vile nature.
In a day I shall have all subdued, and look on
him as a brother in sin, though he has done' me
a cruel injury — ah, yes, sir, a cruel injury. Do
you see that cloud there, sir? There is
something coming. We had better get all tight."

I walked away and went to tell Fanny, who
was reading in the little cabin to a swinging
lamp. "A regular Heep," I said. "A Uriah
of the first water. He has been 'swaddling'
on a tub there for the last quarter of an hour."

Fanny said, gravely, "I wish we were rid of
him. I am sure he is a dangerous man, and
may do some mischief."

"I tell you what, Fan," I said, seriously, "I
think so too; and when we get to Cherbourg,
I shall just speak quietly to him, and look out
for another hand, and send him home, Fan."

But now, almost as we were speaking, a gale
had arisen, and our little bark, without notice
of any kind, had given a sort of vindictive
"shy," as if she wanted to "throw" her riders.
For a second the sea had become like a mass of
black molten iron, and was rolling in huge
waves. In another moment we were rushing
through the waters with a stiff hissing sound,
and every spar and sail cracked and clattered.
The sky had grown black also. It seemed as if
a thunderbolt was to come on us.

Clarke came to me. "We can stand under
but little canvas," he said. "The worst has not
come as yet. We shall have the hand of the
Almighty strong upon us to-night."

It grew darker and darker, and the storm
increased. Our boat was reeling and tumbling,
lurching violently, as if she wanted to go down
head-foremost, then rocking and rolling from
side to side, as if she wished to dash our sides
in. Fanny's face appeared above the
companion-ladder a little anxious; but still
perhaps enjoying the gale. She recollected her
own native coast.

"This is not the worst," said Clarke, coming
to me again; "not for an hour yet. There will
be sad work to-night on the ocean. All the
better for men who have clear consciences, and
have done no wrong to their fellows;" and by a
flash of lightning I saw one of his vindictive
glances flash also towards Dan. That young
fellow had been doing wonders — climbing to set
free the sail which had got fixed, hanging on
like a cat, being here, there, and everywhere,
making everything "tight."

"He gives us no jargon," I said to Fanny,
who, like a brave girl, was up on deck, "but
considers doing his duty the best way of
praying."

But "Heep" was right. The worst had not
come. Crack! There went a spar and sail,
blown through as if it had been so much
paper. Great seas came pouring in upon deck;
yet Fanny would not go below, though it was
next to impossible to keep one's feet securely.
At times our bows were half under water. It was
an awful night. Suddenly we saw, through the
darkness, a faint red light and two other lights.

"A steamer," said Clarke. "We must only
keep by her. It will be something; and, unless
this is a strong boat—"

I was very near getting out some of my
Shakespeare in a most indignant burst, and
saying to him, "Out upon ye, ye owls! Nothing
but songs of death!" but restrained myself.
At that moment snap went our jib, with an
explosion like that of a small cannon. The two
men ran forward to "clear away." There was
a great lurch, a half cry from Fanny, who was
standing half down on the stairs. I ran to her.

"Oh!" she said, in an agony. "Did you
see? Quick — quick! Save him! That wretch!
I saw him do it! Oh, poor, poor Dan —"

I knew at once what she meant, and rushed
to the bows, where I met Clarke coming to
me. I could not see his face.

"Oh!" he said, in a low thick voice. "He
is gone — gone overboard, poor wretch — and
with all his sins on his head!"

I could not speak for a second.

"Put the vessel about — quick!" I said. "I
shall save him."

"Save him!" said he, almost contemptuously.
"That is beyond us. The Almighty may do
something for him. Why, do you know how
far behind the poor wretch is now? I suppose
three miles."

"Put her about!" I said, furiously. "This
is too infamous!"

"You will sink us!" the villain said. "If
we turn a hair's breadth from this course, we
are lost!"

"Put her about!" I said. And the boy at
the helm did so. But Clarke was right; for, as her
head came round, a tremendous sea came
tumbling over her with the force of a discharge of
stones from a mountain. There was a sound
like a smash. I thought we were "gone" at
that moment; and for a moment more our little
boat was quite stunned. She recovered herself
slowly. We found our bulwarks a heap of
laths. Uriah was right. We saw it would not
do. Poor Dan!

"Go aft," I said to him sternly, but in a voice
that trembled.

He did so calmly. Fanny and I held a hurried
consultation. Of course, now, nothing could be
done until the storm abated, if it was to abate
for us. We could not do without such help as