Tepuka. I begged the natives to launch a
canoe on the ocean side, but could not get a
man to lend a hand in transporting one across
the island from the lagoon, where they were
commonly kept. They availed themselves of
every ridiculous excuse for their passive detention
of me. Suddenly, I recollected having
seen in Haka-Shusha, near the dangerous outlet
to the south, a large canoe in such a position
that I thought I might be able to get it into
the water. Half frantic, I ran along the now
naked sands of the inner reef, regardless of the
prickly coral points and shells. When I got to
the spot, a sail was distinctly visible keeping
along the coast. The sight added fresh energy
to my exertions, and, with the assistance of
some broken pandanas boughs as rollers, I
succeeded in getting the cumbrous machine into
the water. Alas! all my toil was in vain. The
canoe leaked so badly, and as the ship already
stood well up to the southern end of Haka-
Shusha, my labours seemed doomed to be fruitless.
Some natives approaching, I desired them
to make a fire, and, having collected great piles
of the withered leaves of the pandanas, I
kindled them into flames, hoping to attract
notice from the vessel. I also went out to
some rocks at the extreme end of the island,
and, attaching my shirt to a spear, waved it to
and fro in the expectation of its being seen by
some one on board. "When the noble vessel
came towards the spot where I stood, I shouted
at the top of my voice, which, however, was
lost in the sound of the breakers. Oh! how
my heart sank, and hope died in my breast, as I
saw her glide rapidly from me. When she had
well cleared the land, she again rounded to, and
stood up along the western shore towards
Sararak. An idea now flashed across my mind
that some of our people residing in Tepuka
might have got on board, and were bringing the
ship round to Mangerongaro to my rescue.
The wind was on her quarter, and though she
swept along more rapidly than I could run, I
pursued her with all the anxiety of despair.
The sun had already set, but the crimson sky
still showed the ship in black relief, when, panting
with fatigue, I reached the Mangerongaro
village. . . . .  The light from her quarter, that
for some time had flickered like a guiding-star
across the wave, gradually disappeared. Fatigued
in mind and body, I threw myself down on the
beach, a prey to grief. A drowning man will
catch at a straw to save himself from sinking.
Fearing that the vessel might lose the bearings
of the island during the night, I kept the whole
coast in flames with pandanas, hara leaves, and
boughs of palm. The long looked-for morn
appeared at length, but no ship. The day
brightened, and passed; the evening set in, and
still there was no appearance of her. As she
might have run more off in the night than she
could make up in the day, I still kept the
beacon-fires bright during the night; but
the ship was gone. The disappointment
completely overwhelmed me, and I became so
savage that the natives feared to approach
me. When I slept, they stole to the entrance
of my hut, and, placing food before me, would
sit down at a distance and watch till I had
taken it."

Fortune favours Lamont at last, and he
succeeds in getting on board another ship, the
John Appleton, whale ship, of New Bedford,
Captain Isaac Taylor commander: not, however,
without a desperate struggle to get away from
his dark relations.

MARTIN GUERRE.

IN the little town of Artigues, in the district
of Rieux, there lived, about the middle of the
sixteenth century, a young couple, about whom
the neighbours whispered most wonderful stories.
Bertrande Rols, a girl of great beauty, had been
married at the early age of little more than ten
years (as was customary in those parts), to
Martin Guerre, who was not much older. No
children resulted from the marriage for some
years, and it was universally believed that the
young people had been bewitched. Their friends
and relations advised all sorts of things to
deliver them from the charm under which they
were supposed to be suffering. But, in despite
of consecrated cakes, masses, and holy wafers,
held and given by the priests of the district,
the enchantment continued. Bertrande's relations
and friends strongly advised her to sue
for a divorce, and to marry some one else. But
the young wife was as virtuous as she was
beautiful, was devotedly attached to her
husband, and would not hear of a separation.
At last, after eight or nine years, when the
young couple were about twenty, Bertrande
gave birth to a boy, who was christened Sanxi.
Shortly after the birth of the child, Martin
Guerre was induced to misappropriate some
corn belonging to his father, who, though of
Biscayan origin, farmed lands in Artigues. The
robbery was discovered, and Martin, fearing his
father's anger, left the place. No one, not even
his wife, could find out whither he had gone.
For eight years, no tidings were heard of him.
Meantime, his father died, apparently without
any ill feeling against his absent son, for he
did not disinherit him. Peter Guerre, brother
of the deceased, managed the property left to
Martin, and drew the rents.

Bertrande during these eight years lived
in strict retirement. Suddenly the news was
spread that Martin Guerre had returned.
The fact was not to be denied. One day
Martin, who was certainly somewhat changed
during the eight years he had been absent,
appeared by the side of his delighted wife, and
was warmly welcomed by the neighbours; they
all recognised him by his features and stature.
He gossiped about old times, on adventures
which had befallen himself, and on many of his old
freaks when a boy. Martin Guerre's four sisters
hailed him as their brother, and Uncle Peter
acknowledged him to be his nephew. He took
possession of Bertrande's house, where he