CHAPTER XIII.

"A STRANGE, STRANGE STORY," SAID FRANK. "I WONDER
HOW IT WILL ALL END."

The loss of nets and boats had been a severe blow to the honest folks of Methlin.

Gladly would Eean have made good his neighbours' losses; but, alas! he was poor. Sitting in his cave one evening, however, composing a poem on the recent disaster for a well-known American magazine that knew the fisherman bard's worth, he was looking around him at his picture-hung walls.

"Why not," he thought, "dispose of a few of these, and head a subscription with the funds thus raised?"

It was an intention that did him infinite credit, for he dearly loved those strange scenes; they were in reality the painted history of his life.

"Well, go they must," he said. "It is in a good cause."

As he was placing five of them on his table he heard footsteps on the stone stairs, and immediately after the white-haired old doctor entered.

"Good morning, poet," he said. "Versifying, eh? Well, there is five yellow boys towards a subscription for boats and nets for your poor people. If I were rich I'd give you more. No, I won't have thanks. I'll run away if you begin. But what are you bundling up those quaint and curious pictures for? Ah! good Eean, I see it in those shy eyes of yours. Nay, nay, you cannot deceive a doctor. But I tell you what, you shan't make the sacrifice."

"I must, and will."

"You shan't. Look here, I know a trick worth two of that. Have an exhibition of all the lot in Edinburgh. There is a character about them, and when people know it is for a good cause they will flock to it.

"Do it, man, do it," added the doctor emphatically.

And Eean took his advice. The newspapers took the affair up, and in a month Eean had raised nearly £700.

Bonfires blazed on every hill on the night Eean, the bard, brought back his pictures, and a huge bonfire in the village square as well.

On the Sunday after, every man, woman, and child marched in a body to the parish church to return thanks to Heaven for all His mercies sent them, the old minister preaching a special sermon for the occasion.

Frank was there along with Fred, and so was little Toddie and Tip. Oh, yes, Tip went! He refused to stay at home.

But the most noticeable figure of all was Bunko in a bran-new scarlet coat and Highland bonnet with which the villagers had presented him. Keelie marched solemnly beside him, and lay at his feet in the kirk till the blessing was said. For remember Keelie was a Scottish collie, and therefore knew what was required of him on the Sabbath-day.

* * * * * *

Nearly three years passed away.

This does not seem a long period of time to the grown-up or the aged, so at the end of it there was very little difference indeed in either Eppie or Eean; but Toddie had stretched up, as the good people of Methlin said. She was nearly ten—quite old she thought herself—and she had grown less round-faced, more delicate in features, very much longer in the hair, and had lost her pretty prattle, that is, she could talk better English. Oh, dear reader, I do assure you I would rather have had her always the wee, droll, lisping Toddie! but my heroine and my heroes will shoot up and grow in spite of me. There is Fred and Frank for instance, fourteen or fifteen years of age respectively, quite men almost. Well, so they thought anyhow. And, without complimenting them in any way, two sturdier, brisker, or bolder-looking lads you would hardly meet in a long day's march.

"What do you think, Fred," said Frank one day, "mamma wants me to be?"

"Couldn't guess," said Fred. "Not a minister."

"Fred, don't be foolish. I'm not good enough for that."

"I know you're not. I was only joking. Well, a lawyer; but then you're hardly bad enough for that."

"Just what I told dear mamma. She is so foolish you know. But I'm to be a barrister; so I suppose I'll have to enter some old mildewed office in London, with a red-faced, white-haired solicitor as my slave-driver, and never see the sun shining except through the cobwebs. Then I'll have to work my way to the bar; but oh, Fred, just imagine me with a flappy old black gown and a stiff white wig on! But I'm going to another good school first, and then to Oxford, so a lot of things may happen before I'm called to the bar. Oh, I hate the very idea!"

Toddie was feeding her blennies in the aquarium while this conversation went on, and the boys were lying on the floor of the cave near by.

What a happy three years that had been though! How many delightful sails they had had in the yacht, musical evenings in the poet's cave, and tea with stories to follow in the inside of their dear old Johnnie whale.

On this particular day, as soon as Toddie had fed her dolly-fish, they all went together to spend the afternoon in the igloo.

The little garden never looked more gay nor lovely, the cosy wee room had never looked brighter or cosier, and yet both Toddie and Fred were sad; for on the morrow Fred was going far away to Glasgow, to spend five months at a school previous to passing his examinations as a midshipman in the merchant service.

He might have gone as an apprentice, but Eean greatly loved the lad. He had given him the education of a gentleman, and wished to hurry him on; for after all, in the race of life at sea, the middie has fewer hurdles to leap than the apprentice. And Eean well knew what a sailor's life really meant, and how wild and rough it was in the forecastle. Tippetty wouldn't keep out of his mistress's lap to-night. He seemed to know there was grief of some kind afloat in the air.

"You'll come often and see Toddie, won't you, Frank?"

"Oh, Frank," said Toddie innocently, "I can't live if you don't."

Frank patted her hand, and as he did so Tippetty took the opportunity of licking both their hands at one and the same time.

Then Bunko came in to lay the tea, and by-and-by Daddy Pop himself arrived, and Mammy Mop too, and there were story telling and singing, so that the night did not pass so sadly after all.

The tide was a long way back at nine o'clock, so they all went home to Eean's cottage across the sands, and there Frank stopped all the night.

* * * * * *

Three months passed away and it was winter, a hard and frosty one too; for weeks and weeks the ground was like adamant, and the rocks were masses of crystal. Peat became scarce in the village, and much driftwood and logs of pine were burned.

The yuletide came round, and Fred came home for a few days' holiday.

"We maun keep good fires on while you're here," said Bunko one day in the wood shed. "Here's a log noo," he said, "that'll mak' a fine lowe (blaze)."

It was a piece of a spar or ship's mast. As he spoke Bunko pulled it down and commenced to saw it through the centre. When half-way through the tool struck on something hard, and Bunko took a big axe and finished the work the saw had begun.

To his utter astonishment and that of Fred there rolled out a handful of gold coins, and the head of a rusty axe.

"Oh!" cried Fred, "that is the log dear Toddie came ashore on. Daddy would never have it touched, but he couldn't have known of the coins. I'll run and fetch him."

"Leave me, lads, for a few minutes," were the first words old Eean spoke when he entered the shed. Then he sat down on the wood pile. Scarcely could he have stood just then had he tried. His feelings were not altogether those of excitement, though he was much moved. Something told him that the mystery of the little waif Toddie was to be revealed to him. The gold that had fallen from the log he felt sure was but a portion of the store therein, and he felt certain also that he would find papers of some kind relating to the child who had so woven herself round his heart, that to tear her away would be an affliction he could not survive. He tried to pray—this was ever his solace in life; but how hard it was just then to say from the heart those words, "Thy will be done."

Now he nerves himself to action.

Why, he wonders as he proceeds to examine the log, did he not think of doing so at the very first, when it was washed in from the wreck supporting its little burden, that but for his wife's skill in bringing back the apparently-drowned to life would now be slumbering in the quiet kirk-yard?

The axeheads in the old log had not only served as a keel, he soon found, but also to keep in position a piece of wood supporting a long belt of canvas. It was this latter Eean now hauled hastily forth, though with trembling hands. It was damp and decayed, and the gold coins—Portuguese they were, he could see at a glance—that rolled out lay unheeded on the ground, while he quickly unfolded a piece of paper that had lain among them.

It was written in Spanish, a language with which he was well acquainted. Before he began to read it a strong wave of temptation passed through his mind, but was bravely resisted. "Why," whispered the tempter, "not burn the letter before reading it? It could but tell the child's history, and he would have in conscience and honour to give his darling up."

Eean had need of a strong will at that moment, the will that in times of trial like this can boldly say, "Get thee behind me, Satan."

He muttered a word or two of prayer once more, then reseating himself on the wood proceeded to read the document.

It was very much frayed, and the writing in part obliterated. Evidently it had been written during the agony of the brief time between the striking of the ship against the rocks, and her heeling back and sinking.

All the portion that has connection with our story may be briefly told. The vessel was the Santa Maria, homeward bound from the West Indies. The mother of the child had died, and been buried at sea. The crew had mutinied, partially robbed the ship, and left in boats, all but a devoted few. Hence the mismanagement and the running on a lee-shore. The child's only living relative was or "would soon be"—so ran this strange epistle, written in the hour of death—"her uncle——" only decipherable word.

"If——" here was a blank, "is spared by the waves, may heaven be good to those who are good,——" a blank again, and the letter went but little further, only a word here and there being readable, these were, "uncle——villain——malediction——."

The signature itself was frayed out, no letters of it remaining except four, "PINT."

The gold in all, which for the time being Eean left lying where it was, hardly amounted, as far as he could judge, to £150 sterling.

"Gold!" he said, actually spurning it with his foot. "What is gold to the love and companionship of my little girl? My own now, it is evident."

Then he shuddered as he thought how nearly he had yielded to temptation, and done that which would have made him miserable for life.

His wife and he had a long talk that evening over the fire, and next day the fisherman bard started for Edinburgh. It was evident to all the villagers—from whom he kept nothing back—that he was going to consult his advocate, and the look of contentment on his face when he returned two days later showed plainly enough that his interview had been of the most successful character.

Nor had he returned alone, and Toddie and Tip were both wild with joy when, from the spring-cart that had brought them all the way from the nearest big town, not only the poet himself, but the two boys descended. Eean had met Frank by accident in Edinburgh. It was getting near Christmas-time, so the lad was as usual on holiday. Both ran through to Glasgow to see Fred, and at Frank's intercession he was permitted to accompany daddy and his friend back to Methlin.

The group around the fisherman bard's fire that night was an interesting one. Just as on that summer's evening long ago when Frank had first entered this humble cot, Eean sat in his tall chair, Eppie was there at the everlasting wheel, Toddie, Fred, and Frank, and even Bunko, were here too, while side by side on the earth lay Bunko's dog Keelie and honest little Tippetty.

Bunko replenished the fire with peats and wood, till the little oil-lamp that hung in the corner seemed sadly superfluous; the bright red gleams lit up the cosy old-world room, made every face seem doubly happy, and were reflected even from the dark, smoke-varnished rafters overhead.

To-night Eean told Toddie's story all over again, much to Frank's delight.

Toddie herself took an interest in it now, and that is what she had never, never done before.

"Weel," said Bunko, "you're a good man, Mr. Arundel, and I'll niver but believe it was an angel o' the Lord that put the saw in my hand, and made me cut up Toddie's log."

Frank had taken Toddie's hand as Bunko spoke, and he still retained it as he said, "But what a strange, mysterious story! It is just like what we read of in books. And, Toddie, there is no saying what you may turn out to be, you know, when the mystery gets all cleared up. Perhaps some Spanish princess, and a chariot and six white horses, all caparisoned with blue and gold, may come some day to take you off."

Toddie drew away her hand, and nestled her head against her Daddy Pop.

"I would not leave you, daddy," she said, "if they did come."

"What would you do, then?" said Frank, laughing.

"Oh, send Bunko away instead!"

"Well, anyhow," said Frank, after gazing thoughtfully at the fire a few moments, "it is a strange strange story. I wonder how it will all end."

CHAPTER XIV.

"DUTY, LAD, DUTY. STICK TO IT THROUGH THICK AND THIN."

This is a world of changes. There is nothing certain in it save death itself. Yes, it is a world of changes, and the sooner in youth one finds this out the better. The richest and the greatest men on earth would be fools were they to say to themselves, "Here we stand, and we shall never be moved." For all things pass away, and very often those we value the most are the first to vanish.

No one could have wished to see a happier, more hopeful face than that of Frank Fielding, as he turned about for the seventh or eighth time to wave an adieu to Fred and Toddie, standing yonder at the door of the old-fashioned whitewashed cottage.

Frank was going home to spend his Christmas at Benshee House; and a right happy and merry Christmas everyone connected with the house had determined it should be. Mr. Fielding himself, who had gone to London on most important business, would be down in time to partake of the festivities, so he had written. Nor was he coming alone. At least a dozen of his own and Mrs. Fielding's friends would come with him to spend the holy week, in a not over-holy way perhaps. So extra servants had been hired, and even an extra cook, "a chef," he called himself; and all throughout the parish, for a fortnight before this, nothing had been talked about except the great doings that were to take place at Benshee House.

The one and only drawback to Frank's happiness was, that his friends Fred and Toddie would not, or could not, be there.

This was no fault of Frank's, it may easily be believed. He had mentioned his wish to have them with him to his mother.

For once in a way she was haughtily obstinate.

"I can't help saying, Frank, I am just a little surprised at what you ask. There are very many and very weighty reasons why those poor children——"

Frank stuck his fingers resolutely in his ears till his mother ceased talking.

It was a rude thing to do; perhaps it was even unkind; but—well, he really could not help it.

He solaced himself, however, with the thought that nothing should prevent him riding over on his pony and spending an evening with them, as soon as he could leave his aristocratic friends at Benshee House.

Now, except in large towns, Christmas is not a day of great rejoicing in Scotland. But at the fisherman's cottage it was always kept, though in a very quiet way. So while mistletoe and evergreen hung in the halls of Benshee, and mirth and music were the order of the evening, Eean, with his family and a few humble guests, surrounded a table in the best room of the little cot, spread with such a variety of good things, and such a weight of good things as well, that in the brief intervals of conversation it was positively heard to creak and groan.

Nor were evergreens wanting as decorations; and it had taken Fred and Toddie a whole day to put these up after Bunko had brought them home with him from the snowy woods.

Such a splendid fire burned in the grate too as quite set cold at defiance, and crackled and roared so pleasantly, that neither the wind which howled around the chimney, nor the boom of breakers on the beach, could be heard.

There was mirth in the kitchen as well as in the best room. Bunko was there in fine form, and many of the humbler among the fisher folks, both old and young. And if Tippetty occupied a proud position to-night on the parlour hearth-rug—one-half of him on the footstool, the other half off—Keelie the collie was not a whit less snug at the other end of the house, and had quite as many bones and tit-bits placed at his disposal.

But by ten o'clock quiet once more reigned in Eean's cottage home, for guests had gone, and prayers were being said.

Seldom a night passed throughout the year, that the fisherman bard did not go out to have a look at the weather and the sea just before turning in. It must have been fully half-past eleven on this Christmas night when he opened the door and walked out into the darkness.

Darkness did I say? Well, dark enough it ought to have been, for there were neither stars nor moon, and while a wild east wind came roaring through the woods, the clouds hung close above them. But darkness, no. He noticed as soon as he shut the door a strange glitter on the white walls of the cottages, and on rounding the corner of his own house perceived, to his astonishment and consternation, that the whole of the eastern sky was illuminated by gleams of flames, and that banks of white rolling smoke obscured the sky.

His first thought was that the forest must be all on fire, and that the conflagration was rolling towards them. But this was unlikely, for the trees were green, snow-laden pines.

He was presently joined by Bunko, who was coming towards the cottage.

"Oh, sir!" cried the half-witted lad, "it's on our bended knees we should a' be this awfu' nicht. The day o' judgment's fast approachin', sir."

"Nonsense, Bunko. But we must find out where the fire is at once; for if it be in the woods we must cut down trees to make a gap, else it will sweep our village off the earth, Bunko."

Running in hurriedly for his plaid and crook, and to tell Eppie what he intended to do, he presently rejoined Bunko.

"Now, Bunko," he said, "you can guide us to the top of Ben Maroo; a mile will take us there, and we will then find out where the conflagration is."

The two were joined by at least half a dozen of the neighbours, to say nothing of Keelie.

Keelie and Bunko went first, straight away into the darkling forest, and straight away through it too, for no better woodsman lived than Bunko, assisted by his dog.

It was rough walking here; but when the little party once more emerged from the shadow of the trees, and commenced to ascend the mountain, it was rougher still.

They struggled up the west side, and after a climb of fully half an hour they found themselves nearly at the top, then they crossed right round above a yawning precipice to the east side.

All in a moment, as it were, they were confronted with the full glare of the terrible conflagration.

Benshee House was sheeted in flames!

This ancient seat was one of those fine old mansions still to be found in the less wild portions of the Scottish Highlands. Though I call it mansion, it really was more of a castle than anything else. It had been the seat of many a lord and laird in by-gone feudal times, and had more than once probably even stood a siege, or at least red-handed war must have raged on its ramparts and around its moats.

The largest portion, however, was unoccupied, a modern-looking wing or two alone being retained as the residence of the Fieldings.

The fire had doubtless broken out here, but by the time Eean and his party reached the mountain brow, this portion was already roofless and gutted, and the flames had full possession of the main block itself.

Flames were issuing from every port and window thereof, and the turrets and towers were but shapes in the centre of gleaming tongues of fire and clouds of rolling smoke. Far over the woods to the westward flew the sparks as thick as the flakes in a snow shower.

The burning of Benshee House will be remembered by many who read these lines, as one of the grandest but most awful sights ever witnessed in the western Highlands.

Eean and his neighbours stood for hours on that bleak hill-top, regardless of the bitter wind that raged around them. Indeed they seemed spell-bound.

Then slowly home through the heather and the forest they returned to their peaceful village by the sea.

* * * * * *

But news of even sadder import spread through the country within the next two or three days.

At the very last moment Mr. Fielding's friends had to start from London without him. He hoped, he said, to return next day.

Alas! next day saw poor Fielding lying dead in his town house.

On that very Christmas night, while his Scottish home was being consumed by fire, he was closeted with his solicitors.

A very great city commercial failure had taken place the day before, and Fielding was a ruined man; nay, it was even more than ordinary ruin, he was poorer that dread night than some of the beggars who shivered on the Thames embankment.

When his servant went to call him in the morning he found that master had never been to bed.

Yonder he sat in the arm-chair near the fire, apparently asleep.

There was nothing in the grate but cold white ashes, and——master would soon be ashes too. He was dead and stiff.

It is well to pass over the events that occurred immediately after the burning of Benshee, and the death of Fielding. Some things are best not told. But even did I desire to describe the grief of poor Frank, and that of his proud—all too proud—mother, words would fail me.

Suffice it to say that both she and he must now depend, for a time at all events, on the charity of friends and relations. And oh, charity is a cold, cold thing at best, but doled out begrudgingly by the hands of uncles, aunts, or cousins, it is colder and more bitter than poison itself.

Financial ruin, death and fire, and all to happen within forty-eight hours! Am I not right in saying it is a world of change and a world of grief?

One day in spring a sturdy boy, in dusty garments and stick in hand, knocked at the door of the fisherman's cottage.

It was Toddie herself who opened it.

The stranger was Frank, but so changed she hardly knew him.

But she dragged him in, and seated him by the fire, as in the dear old days, and sat down on a stool beside him.

Tip, the dachshund, was rejoiced to see the boy again, and made frantic efforts to jump on his knee. But, alas! he was far too long for that, so he had to content himself with licking Frank's hand, then resting his brown-tan cheek lovingly against it.

When Toddie saw this, something seemed to come over her all at once, and she burst into tears.

Frank was doing his best to console her when Eppie herself entered, and Frank rose to greet her.

She took both his hands in hers, and the tears rose even to her honest eyes.

"My poor, dear laddie," she said, "sae wan and sae woebegone. But cheer up, cheer up! Believe me, Frank, it may be all for the best."

By-and-by Eean himself came in, and even Bunko, and nobody that night had a thought for himself or herself. Every effort was made towards making Frank feel happy and at home. These efforts were not unsuccessful. Some natures are wonderfully resilient, and Frank's was one of these. He was a brave, open-hearted boy; and although no one could have felt much more keenly than he did his altered position in life, and the amount of unhappiness his fate had brought on him, still he was by no means inclined to let down his heart, as anyone might have gathered from a remark he made that evening. Tip had knocked down the boy's stick.

"Ah! Tippie," said Frank, "be careful of that; it is really all I have left me in the world."

Eean took occasion to add to this, "Nay, boy, you have hope, and you have youth, and you have health. Glorious possessions all; and if you trust to our Father, lad, He'll be a stronger rod and staff to you than that stick, sturdy and all though it be."

"Oh, well," said Frank, "I shan't need a stick long, for I've made up my mind to go to sea."

"What!" cried Toddie, "and be a midshipman like Fred? How nice!"

"Yes, that would be nice, Toddie; but, heigho! if I go at all it must be before the mast, or as an apprentice. Oh, Mr. Arundel," he added, colouring slightly, "even if I could afford the outfit of a midshipman I couldn't pass the examinations! I'm very stupid; but then——"

Frank paused.

"What were you going to say?" said Eean quietly

"Well, I was going to say what I have no business to say, because my dear mother always tried to do the best she could for me; but, sir, the constant changing of schools, and being allowed to do as I liked, and to have as many holidays as I pleased, have—have made a dunce of me. I wish I'd gone to a Scotch school like Fred."

"You're not a dunce, lad. You haven't had opportunities of learning, that is all."

"Heigho! I fear I'm spoiled and idle; but I'm going to try my very best to learn and to do well."

"Bravo, boy!" cried Eean, "give me your hand on that. Work hard, lad. I've heard you talk before of the dignity of labour. Do your duty ever. It is because Britons—brave Scottish, English, and Irish Britons—have done their duty all the world over, and looked for a blessing from on high, that Great Britain ranks this day as a first power, if not the first power, among the nations. Duty, lad, duty. It is a sacred thing. Stick to it through thick and thin, and every good will follow; and even if death should come in the doing of it, your last thoughts will be thoughts of peace."

CHAPTER XV.

THE GOOD SHIP "SAN SALVADOR."—A MYSTERY OF THE
SOUTHERN SEAS.

It was just such a night as a sailor loves—bright and starry, with a ten-knot breeze blowing, and enough sea on to heel the ship over to leeward, and make one feel one really is afloat on the ocean wave; a night to make one feel rather proud of his ship too than otherwise, if there really is any go and independence about her; a night on which the seaman is apt to pause in his walk fore and aft the decks, and gaze over the bulwarks at the lapping, leaping, bubbling waters, that lisp to him, whisper to him, sing to him, talk to him, and tell him of home.

If he is leaning over the lee side on a night like this with the wind abeam, the water seems ever so much darker and nearer, and the wavelets make pretence every minute to jump up and kiss the hand he extends towards them. If he is leaning over the weather side, the water appears brighter but far off, for it catches the glints of the starlight and the reflected shimmer from the long, clear line of wave-scoured copper, ever and anon showing up as the vessel swings to leeward.

The stars were as bright to-night as bright could be, and the southern cross was very high in the heavens, for the good ship San Salvador was well to the south'ard. She was ploughing her way across that wide and lonesome sea, that stretches from stormy Cape Horn far down in the fifties, to the Cape of Good Hope in warmer latitudes, but pointing to an ocean that is at times hardly less wild and tempest-vexed than that which laves the shores of Tierra del Fuego itself.

A single glance at a map, reader, will give you some idea of the width of this wondrous sea—five thousand miles if it be a league; but think of its loneliness. Almost entirely out of the track of ships was the course of the San Salvador, for here is no great ocean highway, so on, on, on over the deep and blue-black waters the good barque had been sailing for weeks, since the day she had rounded the Horn in a gale of wind, with ice on every hand. Sometimes the breeze had been favourable enough, at other times dead ahead, so that it was tack and tack all day long; but for days she had lain becalmed—no, not lain, for she had come into a strong current, and been drifted far to the south out of her course.

They were trying hard now to make up that lee-way, and only this very forenoon they had sighted land, which, as nearly as they could make out, must have been the lonely isle of South Georgia. Never a ship had they seen, never a sail or even canoe. On an ocean like this, and under such circumstances, one cannot help feeling at times as if the world were all a world of waters, and that the ship on which one stands bears the only life afloat on it, and that it is doomed to sail for ever and for ever onwards, yet never reach a port or haven.

Seldom had they seen birds even, only now and then a solitary albatross—great eagle of the sea—that flew silently over them, nor deigned to turn an eye towards the ship, or the frigate-bird that flitted past like some dark spirit of the ocean wave.

No wonder that such a sea as this is supposed by old hands to be haunted. Not by phantom ships nor by Flying Dutchmen. Oh, no! Vanderdecken was never so low down in the world's great chart; but by strange creatures, dark and fearful, that raise their awful forms high out of the water to stare at you with wondering eyes as your ship sails slowly by.

There is always much that is mysterious about the ocean, much that we cannot understand, and creatures may exist therein that are more dreadful to behold than the wildest nightmares. It is on still, calm nights that these mysteries come up from the dark depths, so sailors will tell you. Even on the blackest nights they may give some indication of their presence. On this very cruise of the San Salvador, for instance, the men forward openly averred that the ship was followed, was "shadowed," they termed it, by some dread thing—they could not have told you what, for it had so many shapes. It was never twice seen alike. But they would have told you they always seemed to feel its presence, and knew that it was not far off even in daylight and in the sunshine.

In a fog, soon after they had got clear of the southern ice, men forward heard a fearful blowing, hissing sound on the lee bow, and soon after saw IT looming high above them almost like a black cloud. Then a plash in the water and IT was gone.

In the broad light of day once a flag had been dropped overboard. Now, it is unlucky to lose a flag, so the main-yard was hauled aback, and a whaler lowered, manned by five men. They could see the flag spread out on the water after they had rowed fully half a mile from the ship's position. They pulled fast and hard now, and soon reached it. Horror of horrors! the awful IT was near the flag, and no oar was stretched out to recover the bunting. What it was like no man could rightly say; but all agreed as to its being all legs and claws, with a beak-armed head and terror-striking eyes.

Another day a boat went after a seal that was floating on a morsel of ice. When within about two hundred yards of the little berg a very strange thing occurred. A tall, black arm, higher and thicker than a fishing-boat's mast, was slowly raised above the water, and there remained, as if to warn them not to approach. It is needless to say the boat returned without the seal.

One dark night, a long, wriggling, snake-like line of bluish fire was seen rushing along the surface of the water. All hands were called when it was no larger than a ship's lantern far away on the lee bow. All hands watched it, getting bigger and bigger as it approached. All hands saw it cross the bows in the shape I have mentioned, the men being frightened almost to death, and clutching fearfully at each other, none daring to speak or move, till finally IT disappeared as it had come, far away on the weather horizon.

And every night, when becalmed, the men were sensible of some huge dark image rolling in the water at no very great distance.

Verily there are more things in heaven and in the earth and sea, than we have dreamt of in our philosophy.

But on this particular night the men of the good barque San Salvador were far more cheerful than usual, for IT had not not appeared in any shape or form for several days. Then the stars looked so comforting and seemed so near, while away in the west lay a long bank of rock-like clouds, the profile of which could be seen every few seconds in the glare of the lightning that flashed behind it.

There was not much light on deck, however, a glimmer from the skylight, a smoking lantern forward near the forecastle, and rays from the binnacle, but not sufficient to show even the faces of three individuals who were sitting on the grating abaft. You could have noticed that two were smoking cigars, the red tips would have told you that, and the aroma of Cuba confirmed it.

"Why, sir, if this wind holds, we'll go jumping across, and get into Cape Town harbour in a fortnight's time."

"And if," answered the captain, for it was he whom the mate had addressed, "if it doesn't blow more big guns, if you don't lose the sticks out of her by cracking on too much, and if—if—oh! there's lots of other ifs."

"If, for instance," said a younger voice to leeward of the captain, "IT doesn't appear again and scare the men to death."

"Why, Fred Arundel, are you there, lad? I didn't notice you, as you're not smoking. But no, I think we've left IT down to the south. Though you're not superstitious, are you, lad?"

"N——no; that is, not much, you know, only I had a queer dream last night."

"Ah! a dreamer of dreams are you? Well, tell us your dream. It's just a night for a song or a story."

"Well, you know, sir, I don't believe in dreams as a rule, they are generally so silly and upside-down-like. But this one was so vivid that I feel quite certain poor Frank is either dead and gone, or I shall soon see him again alive and well."

"It seems to me, Fred, that the dream reads in either direction. But who is Frank? You haven't told us that yet."

"Didn't I? I feel somehow as if everybody should know Frank. But Frank is—a—well, Frank is—Frank, you know."

"To be sure. I don't doubt you."

"Oh, excuse me, sir, for being so very stupid! Well, Frank Fielding is, or, heigho! was, my dearest friend on earth, we loved each other so; and when we were shipwrecked on a lonely island together we shook hands, and vowed we'd be brothers till death. And——"

"Wait a bit, Fred. I'm taken all aback like. Is this part of the dream?"

"No, sir, this is all reality."

"But you weren't at sea before to get shipwrecked?"

Fred was saucily laughing now.

"Oh, yes, sir, we were! Our craft was the good ship Water Baby, the owner, Frank Fielding, of Benshee House. I was captain, and the crew all told was my sister Toddie—who isn't my sister at all, however—and her little dog Tip."

"I begin to see through the milestone now," said Captain Cawdor. "Go on with your cruise of the Water Baby then."

"There's nothing much to tell, you know. We had put to sea well-provisioned, and all that, and were enjoying ourselves finely. We had just finished dinner, when a white squall came roaring over the mountains, and blew us far away to the west. I was the pirate of the wild west seas, anyhow."

"I say, mate, did you know we had a real live pirate on board?"

"No, sir, it's terrible!"

"Well, sir," continued Fred, "we were shipwrecked on a desert island, and played at Crusoes, till Toddie grew sick, and lay down to die. Then it was very awful; but somehow Daddy Pop found us, and we were saved."

"Go on, lad."

"Frank's people were very rich, you know; but as far as education went Frank, poor fellow, didn't know much. He was going to be a barrister, he told me, and confessed at the same time he hadn't cleverness enough to be a bar tender even, or a billiard marker. Then his father died on a Christmas night, and Benshee House was burned down—and my poor friend Frank was ruined. Daddy would have got him on as middie like myself, but he was too proud to accept a money favour, and he couldn't have passed the exams, either. But he went to sea, and I greatly fear he has gone before the mast. Oh, fancy, sir, a gentleman's son, and he himself a gentleman, working as a boy, scraping masts, and——"

"Scraping fiddlesticks," cried honest old Cawdor. "Why, lad alive, I begun life just like that, and look at me now."

"Well," said Fred, "I am looking, but I can only see the point of your old cigar."

"You young rascal, you!" The captain gave Fred a kindly slap. "Do you feel me then? But heave round with that yarn of yours. Didn't your friend write?"

"Just once to Toddie from Demerara, but he gave no address, and didn't even tell her the name of his ship. Well now, sir, he and I have both been at sea for nearly four years," continued Fred.

"Yes, boy, it's going on that way."

"I've been twice home, and I've passed for mate, though Frank has made no sign. But now in my dream I saw him as plainly as I see you."

"What!"

"I don't mean that, because I can't see you, but I saw Frank Fielding coming smiling towards me and holding out his hand."

"How did he look?"

"He looked well-dressed, healthy and bonnie, and a sailor all over, sir."

"And you love this lad, Fred?"

"Ah! sir, he is the only friend I have about my own age. I love him like a brother."

Captain Cawdor smoked in silence for a time. Then he put his iron hand once more on Fred's shoulder, but this time he let it rest there for a time.

"Now, lad, I'll tell you what it is. Ever since you've come to me you've behaved like a brick, and a brave brick too. I've been watching all your doings, boy; I hope I've been a father to you."

Fred patted the big hand that lay on his shoulder.

"Indeed, indeed you have, Captain Cawdor."

"Well, you've done your duty, what man or boy can do more? Then, when in half a gale of wind our poor second mate Finch fell overboard, not a month ago, you stripped jacket and boots and dived after him, and you kept him afloat till we found you both. Had that mate of mine not been so fond of accursed rum he'd be living now. But his constitution was rotten to the core—rum-rotten. So his immersion killed him, and I've made you second mate of the San Salvador. And as sure as my name is James Cawdor, when we get back to old England you shall have the Albert medal for bravery in saving life at sea.

"Thanks, sir, thanks, but it was really nothing."

"Stop, let me finish. We are an officer short now, and if we do meet that friend Frank of yours, and he is worth an old ship biscuit, and up to the ropes, I'll give him a chance, just see if I don't. Don't thank me, I hate verbal thanks. Don't speak your thanks, live it."

"I'll live to please you, sir. Yes, I'll live my thanks."

"Well now, let us go below, and leave the mate to keep his watch. I want to hear you play a bit, I always think it cheers the men forward up to hear music aft. Down you go first."

Fred dived below and entered the well-lighted little saloon of the barque. Though not large, it was as snug and cosy as a lady's boudoir, and at the farther end of it stood an open piano.

And now that the light shines full in their faces, we can see both Fred himself and his kindly Captain Cawdor.

CHAPTER XVI.

DEAKIN AND CO. AND THE LOST BRIG "RESOLUTE."

It had just gone one bell in the first watch, and so was nearly time for the frugal supper, partaken of every night in the saloon of the San Salvador. The fact is, breakfast was served sharp at eight o'clock, dinner at one, and a high tea at six. The tea was really a kind of a sea dinner in itself, for the meat and biscuits were always put down, with soft tack (bread) if there was any. Therefore supper after this was a mere snack, say a box of sardines with pickled onions and biscuits, washed down with coffee or cocoa.

To-night the steward spread the banquet as soon as the captain and Fred came down.

"Where is Cassia-bud?"

"I call him in one minute, sah."

What a mountain of a fellow this steward was! As black was he as the inside of an empty ink-jar when the cork is in. All black except two rows of white teeth and the conjunctiva of his eyes. These last, however, had a tinge of yellow in them. Quambo was really a giant, only a very good-natured one. But once or twice in a fight on shore the man had shown the kind of metal he was made of. He was very fond of Fred. One day the latter had interfered in Zanzibar to protect a poor little slave lass, that a fierce-looking Arab had been brutally using. The consequence was that the lad was mobbed. But from the window of the hotel Quambo had seen it all. Downstairs he rushed, and before he left the house with one terrible wrench he tore an iron bar from the window, then sallied forth. Fred was lying helpless and bleeding, and the Arabs and half-castes around him must have numbered fifty at least.

"Clear the way!" cried Quambo. "Sameela! Sameela!" (Make room! make room!)

Then the fiends turned fiercely on the negro. But Quambo's eyes were flashing fire, and his nostrils distended like those of a war-horse that scents the battle from afar. He mowed that ruffianly mob down right and left, drawn swords were shivered in pieces, and the thick turbans of the Arabs were no protection against the terrible weapon that Quambo wielded. He speedily rescued Fred, and bore him away in triumph. Fred and his friend the negro left the hotel half an hour after, but no one wanted to renew the combat.

Now Cassia-bud was also a negro, a poor, wee innocent mite of a fellow, and the ship's pet. Small enough was Cassia-bud to ride on the captain's great honest black Newfoundland dog, and small enough too for the men to make a ball of and play a kind of game with of a summer's evening.

"Kashie! Kashie!" shouted Quambo, and next minute Kashie appeared.

"Here, boy, pull my boots off!" The captain had flung himself into his easy chair and stuck out his legs.

What a good-natured, aye, and good-looking, man was this same skipper, as he liked to call himself! For well-nigh fifty years he had kicked about all over the world; but, barring his grey hairs and snow-white whiskers, you scarce could have told he was a day past forty. He was a thorough sailor every inch.

But is that our little Fred that used to be? That tall, handsome young fellow of seventeen, with dark blue eyes, a wealth of brown curly hair, and a budding black moustache. Verily, it is none other. Look at his rosy face and pearly teeth. Behold what the sea and a virtuous life has done for the young Scottish sailor!

Down he sat beside his captain, and the rapid disappearance of those sardines and onions, with the crisp toasted and buttered biscuit, would have made a cockney stare in wonder.

Fred swallowed his cocoa. Quambo mixed the captain's last cup. Cassia-bud put his master's slippers on, and then lay down beside Hurricane Bob, the Newfoundland, and took his fore-paws round his neck; then Fred began to play and sing.

Fred had a sweet voice, and so modulated his accompaniment that there was nothing but fascinating unison from beginning to end of the song he sung.

The captain was right, the music really was infectious, and had you come on deck half an hour after Fred began to play, and strolled forward to the galley, a happier lot of sailors than that around the fire it would have been impossible to have imagined. Spinning yarns and singing songs to the music of the cook's old fiddle had become the order of the evening, and even IT—the mysterious IT, which had followed the ship so far—was forgotten in the general gaiety that prevailed, and in the harmony that reigned universal.

* * * * * *

Like Fred himself, and a large proportion of the crew, Captain Cawdor was Scotch, and, like many Scottish skippers, he was part owner of the barque he commanded. This was good for himself, but it was also good for the other owners, none of whom were sailors. But they knew the ship was in excellent hands, and that while they were sleeping quietly in their comfortable beds, Captain Cawdor was sailing the seas here and there throughout the world, taking "a voyage," as he termed employment, wherever he got it, and thus oftentimes managing to pay himself and brother shipowners cent. per cent. Then the vessel was heavily insured, and were she even to leave her bones on some foreign strand, the insurance office alone would have to mourn, and they could well afford to pay.

Cawdor had neither kith nor kin belonging to him, all were dead and gone.

"I'm getting up in years," he told Fred more than once; "but so long as I remain at sea I feel a young man, and, please the Lord, Fred, I'll die on the ocean, and be buried as a sailor should be."

On this voyage the San Salvador was on her way from Valparaiso with a mixed cargo for the Cape, and with much specie as well. The men knew there was gold and silver on board, and that the boxes lay in the captain's cabin, and yet neither he nor his mate had the slightest fear, so well chosen were the seamen.

There were, it is true, a few half-caste Spaniards on board; but however much mischief they might have liked to have worked, they were in too small a minority to count for anything.

And so, despite the evil-augured IT that had dodged around them, the ship sailed on and on over that lonesome waste of waters, and no evil befel her.

At long last—glorious sight to those sea-weary mariners—Cape pigeons came flying about, and pieces of dark drifting seaweed; and then gulls appeared to greet them; and then the mountains of Cape Colony appeared, like a cloud in the nor'-eastern horizon. The men hailed them with three cheers.

The ship would lie for a whole fortnight at Cape Town, and they all expected letters from home; besides, Captain Cawdor was by no means niggardly in the matter of leave; so the hands expected a good spell on shore, and plenty of fun and dancing.

It was Fred's second visit to the Cape, but it had been winter when he was here before; that is, it was in the middle of June. This is really a pleasant time, for no snow lies in these regions, and indeed I have never seen it fall. The air, however, is cool and bracing, and there are clouds to temper the sunshine, while morning and evening sunrises are lovely in the extreme.

Now it was summer in these latitudes, and the sun, though tempered by ocean breezes, was almost fiercely hot; the sea was blue, and the sky was almost cloudless; while the great and glorious mountains seemed to simmer in the quivering naze.

All the first day of the ship's arrival Fred had to stick fast on board, for both the mate and Captain Cawdor were busy on shore, and cargo and specie both were being landed.

In the evening when he returned the captain brought letters from home for the ship's crew, and there were several for Fred. As soon as possible he hurried below and lit his cabin swing-candle, and, sitting down prepared to devour them. There was a very long letter from Daddy Pop, and one from Mammy Mop as well. Both contained much kindly and good advice. Then there was a long, delightful letter from Toddie. Poor Toddie was in grief, for not only was poor old Tip dead, but Bunko's Keelie too; for though dogs love us much, they cannot live for ever.

These letters were all loving and homely. As he read them the tears came welling into the lad's eyes, as the humble little fisher cottage rose up before him, the little whitewashed village among the green, drooping silver birch trees. He seemed to sit once more, as he used to do, in that charmed circle by the low hearth, with Eean in his arm-chair, Toddie on her low stool, and Eppie at the spinning-wheel. He thought he could hear the crackle of the blazing logs and the birr—rr—rr of the wheel, and see the firelight flicker on the old bard's face and glance upon the dark rafters, from which the brown hams hung, and the homely strings of onions.

He sighed, and I'm not sure a tear did not fall. He would have given a good deal just then to be able to visit but for one half hour the little cottage by the sea. He put the letters away in his desk, and walked on deck. Strange as it may appear, he believed so thoroughly in his vivid dream that he had really expected a letter from his friend Frank Fielding.

The captain took him on shore with him next day, and as they walked along the principal streets, Fred would not have been a bit surprised to have met Frank, just as he had met him in his dream.

The captain and he dined together well and heartily at one of the best hotels, and were sitting talking together over the dessert, when a tall, white-haired gentleman drew near to the table.

"I beg pardon, stranger," he said, "but are you Captain Chowder?"

"I'm Skipper Cawdor, of the barque San Salvador."

"The very individual. I thought it was Chowder. Well, Captain Chaw—Chow—I mean Cawdor, are you open to take a commission?"

"Sit down, sir. Have a glass of port. Your name?"

"Deakin, of Deakin and Co. We're shipowners, oil-merchants, anything."

"Well, I'm open to load up and go anywhere."

"When can you start?"

"In half an hour after the last bale's on board."

"But it ain't bales, captain. Fact is, a whaler of ours, the brig Resolute, that touched here eight months ago, and ought to have returned long since, is lost, and we've just got word from a vessel that has come from Kerguelen that in all likelihood the crew are saved, and living or existing on an island a long distance to the east and south of that black starvation rock."

"Yes, I see. Well, sir?"

"Well, it's like this. The brig's well insured, we don't care a dime about her, and we don't care a dime about any man Jack on board the Resolute, except one, and he's one of the firm, Señor Sarpinto. We would pay handsomely to have him; but, of course, you could bring the others."

"I understand. Couldn't well leave them, could we? And, Mr. Deakin, if I understand you, I'm to load up with extra provisions, and sail in search of this shipwrecked crew of whalers, and bring them here?"

"No, you needn't bring them here. We'll give you a light cargo for New Zealand, and orders to ship another there for San Francisco, where our principal house is, and where Señor Sarpinto will desire to be taken. Now, Captain Ch—a—Cawdor, have we met the right man in you?"

"You've met the identical individual."

"And you can start at once?"

"The morning after to-morrow."

"Well, captain, here's my card. Come to the office this evening before five, and we'll arrange terms. We wouldn't lose our partner for a good deal, I can assure you, sir. Good-day."

"Whew—ew—ew!" whistled Captain Cawdor, as soon as the door had closed on their strange visitor. "Well, Fred, here's a wind-up to a windy day. Worthy Mr. Deakin, of Deakin and Co., doesn't care a dime for either the ship or the crew of honest whalers, and owns up to it like a man, or rather like a Yankee; but they mustn't lose their Señor Sarpinto. Now, take my word for it, he is the sporting partner, fond of adventure and all that sort of thing; but he has also got the dollars, and the worthy firm of Deakin and Co. would go all to smash without him. They are willing to pay, and what is more, they'll have to. I'll wager a new sou'-wester a Scot knows how to make a bargain with a Yankee, see if he doesn't. Captain Chowder, indeed! I'll Chowder him! Ha! ha! But I say, Fred, write your letters home, and be brisk about it. There's a tidy cruise before us, but money in it mind for me, and a bit for you too, lad."

* * * * * *

And Captain Cawdor drove a very excellent bargain indeed with Deakin and Co. That was the reason, and the only reason, why, just two days after this, the sturdy old barque was seen standing away from the Cape, steering south-south-east, with every inch of canvas set both 'low and aloft.

CHAPTER XVII.

SOUTHWARD HO! TO THE SEA OF ICE.

In a fortnight's time the San Salvador had placed at least one thousand miles betwixt her and the Cape of Good Hope. This was looked upon by Captain Cawdor as fair running, considering the wild weather the barque experienced. They had put out to sea on a glorious summer's day, on the wings of a gentle breeze, the hills behind them purple and green with vegetation and flowers; white-winged gulls sailing around them in the sky or floating on the hardly ruffled breast of ocean, the good old ship seeming to wish to linger near that lovely land. But hardly had the last seagull shrieked its wild farewell, and night and darkness begun to fall over the waves, than it could be seen, from the rising clouds, the moaning wind, and incessant sheets of lightning, that a tempest was brewing. So sail had been at once shortened, and everything done that could be done to secure safety and comfort for the night. Luckily the wind had come from the right quarter, so that although it blew big guns, and though green seas were shipped over the bows and came roaring aft, the good ship went tearing on, and daylight saw her staggering almost under bare poles, amidst such a chaos of mountain waves as probably is only to be seen in one part of the world, and that the ocean regions round the Cape.

And from that very day, all along, the wind had never entirely ceased to rage and roar, nor stormy seas to dash around the ship. She was always half battened down, especially forward, where in galley and mess-places lamps had to be burned all day long, and where, even down below, the decks were never dry. Little do boys who long to be sailors know of the hardships that men before the mast, aye, and apprentices also, have to endure in such latitudes as these, when the ship is far, far from land, and when no one knows or can guess what fate has in store for himself or his ship.

It was a trying time, but worse was to follow. I must say, however, that the men never grumbled, nor did they snarl and growl at each other like ill-conditioned curs, as sailors so frequently do under like circumstances, until verily the vessel they live in becomes a kind of hell afloat.

Fred Arundel was as much of a favourite forward as he was aft. His open, laughing, good-tempered face seemed to bring sunshine with it wherever he went. Nor was he ever too high and mighty to lend a helping hand wherever needed. Any day you might have seen Fred hauling away at tack or sheet, or even in a wild sea-way taking a dash aloft with the hands, and laying well out on a yard, helping to shorten sail. The men loved and respected him for all this, but they never took advantage of his good nature.

Many a dark night too, when it was not his watch, Fred would mingle with a group forward, and listen to their yarns, or even tell one himself.

As I have said, the crew was chiefly composed of Scotchmen. Well, Fred lent them books to read, just the kind he knew would please them.

Sometimes of an evening, when the captain was below with his boots off, Fred would promise the men a song, and they would slip aft and station themselves near the skylight. Then Fred would go below.

"D'ye mind having the skylight open a wee bit?" Fred would ask of his jolly skipper.

"You young rascal!" the latter might reply, "I'm up to your dodges. You want to play to the men, not to me."

"That's it," Fred would say, laughing, and next moment big Quambo would have the skylight open; that is, of course, if the weather wasn't altogether too rough.

Then Fred would play and sing. It might be the melting melody of "Auld Robin Gray," or "Afton Water;" or something more martial and bold, such as the "March of the Cameron Men;" or "Cam' ye by Athole?" But while he sang he never failed to hold the men entranced.

"Land ahead, sir!"

It was a shout from the look-out on the fore-top.

"Hard up with her!" cried the mate, and presently the land was brought well on the bow.

Only just in time, however; for what had seemed like a mass of cloud on the eastern horizon had suddenly resolved itself into black, beetling rocks, with a fringe of green on top, and waves foaming like cataracts at the foot thereof. So near to some of the outlying rocks or "whales' backs" had they come that they only just missed grazing them. As far as they could make out, the land now visible belonged to the Grozet group of islands. Soon afterwards they sighted land to the north.

Luckily the wind was fair and the day fairly clear; but it was an anxious time with Captain Cawdor until he got fairly clear of these lonely isles of the southern ocean.

These unknown seas of the far south are much more fraught with danger, than even the shifting sands and coral reefs of African shores. On the latter, so long as a man is kept in the chains, and soundings carried on, the vessel is comparatively safe, for the water shoals gradually; but in such latitudes as those in which the San Salvador was now sailing the lead was of little use. On dark nights heaven alone knows what dangers were not narrowly escaped, for by day oftentimes the first indication they had of the vicinity of a semi-submerged rock was the appearance of breaking water at that particular spot.

"There is a sweet little cherub sits up aloft
To look after the life of poor Jack."

Perhaps, and really this cherub was all the captain of the San Salvador had to trust to in the inky darkness of the night; but two very substantial cherubs were always in the foretop and cross-trees by day, and often one of these bore the blue eyes of Fred Arundel.

Kerguelen Isles at last. Blackness and desolation. Only the wild birds, that flocked and flew in myriads about the cliffs and rocks; only an occasional seal, or the head of a monster sea-elephant raised above the black water, to gaze wonderingly at the ship under sail, which, if the beast thought at all, he must have taken for some gigantic bird.

The captain landed in a bay. Yes, people had been here, and lately too. Whalers perhaps, or shipwrecked mariners; but no signs or sounds of human life were seen or heard now, so he came away and the voyage was resumed.

South still. South and east; and after five days of rough and tumble sailing, sometimes with showers of snow driving across the deck and almost choking the men as they kept watch, on a bright, clear morning the man at the mast-head once more raised the cry of "Land, ho!"

An island, undoubtedly.

Perhaps one of the outlying rocks of Donell's Group. They would have passed it, and sailed on their course to resume the search for the missing whalers; but young Fred's eagle eye noticed smoke, and instantly reported it.

"Haul the foreyard aback. Away, whaler!"

These were the orders, and speedily executed they were. Out swang the boat, and down, taking the water on an even keel, and in five minutes' time Captain Cawdor himself, accompanied by Fred, was steering away over the blue-black waters for a little bay in the desolate island.

Here, to their surprise, they found two men, and the joy the poor fellows evinced as the boat's keel rasped on the shingle was almost hysterical. They had been living in a cave near by, and from the way it was lined with sealskins it was evident enough that they had not gone short of provisions during their sojourn here, and that, moreover, despairing of being rescued for long months to come, they had commenced preparations for spending the winter in comparative comfort.

They had a large boat too, and the first thing that the captain noticed was the name painted on her bows—Resolute.

"Why," cried Captain Cawdor, "you are the very men we have come to seek for. But where are the rest of you?"

Then the faces of the two men fell, and they looked at each other confusedly and guiltily.

"Bill," said one at last, "better let us make a clean breast of it."

"Right, Nat. Guess it'll be the same in the end."

"We're about the guiltiest men out then," said the man called Nat.

"Mutiny and murder?"

"No, sirree; not so bad as that. Our hands are clean. But, sir, we are willing to own up to robbery. Yes, as base as base could be. But heaven knows, sir, we've suffered for it. Our ship, the Resolute, got in a gale of wind in the south-eastern ice down here, and we lost all our boats except this one here. Then we took the ice, or rather we were squeezed into a starvation creek or bay, 'nipped up' and thrown on our beam-ends on top of a floe. That's months ago, sir."

"I see," said Captain Cawdor, "and you and your mate here stole the only boat, provisioned her, and escaped in the dark."

"May the Lord love you, sir, that's it entirely."

"Well, you deserve to be marooned. If it wasn't for one thing more than another I'd take your arms and tools, smash your boat, and leave you here to perish. As it is, we'll leave the boat and take you. Is it far from here where your ship lies wrecked?"

"A good thousand miles, sir."

"A thousand miles! And how on earth did you reach here?"

"We kept hugging the ice all the way till abreast of the islands. Whenever it came on to blow we drew up the boat and lived on small bergs. Ah! sir, I assure you we're real penitent."

"You will have to prove your penitence then by guiding us to the wreck of the Resolute. If I find you false, I shall hang you both to the yard-arm as sure as my name is Jamie Cawdor."

"We'll be true as a needle to the Pole, sir. Won't we, Bill? We swear it."

"I swear it," said Nat solemnly.

They were then taken on board, and the voyage was renewed.

No time was to be lost now if the men of the Resolute were to be rescued this year; for the ice-floes in these regions are constantly shifting, and streams of bergs in another month would encompass every island in the southern sea, rendering relief to the castaway crew an utter impossibility.

For two more weeks and over the cruise was continued, the weather being on the whole crisp and clear and the wind favourable.

Being now about the longitude indicated by the men picked up from Donell's rocks, the course was changed and the ship steered south away, till at last the ice was made. Although there were many floating bergs or huge pieces, with green glittering sides and caps of snow, the main flow was in itself a wondrous sight. Imagine, if you can, a huge irregular perpendicular wall of ice of nearly one thousand feet in height, level on its upper crust of snow, and indented with many a bay, with the waves dashing in foam high over the water-line, and forming a ridge of the strangest and most fantastic stalactites that it is possible to imagine. Here were caves of ice and grottoes of ice and coral apparently, with pillars of every shape and size, from which, when the sun shone, the most radiant and lovely colours were reflected, rendering the whole scene dazzling in the extreme. As the ship sailed slowly along this scene of enchantment, it was impossible not to believe you actually saw strange figures moving to and fro in those fairy caves, figures in trailing garments, some all white, others green, or blue or crimson, but all emitting light, and all seeming to mingle and glide as ghosts are said to do. Several times, indeed, Fred could have swore he saw hands and arms waved towards him, and the more he gazed the more life-like the ice spirits grew, till at last he was fain to cover his face with his hands, as a strange momentary fear came over him that he was losing his senses.

The effect of the scene on the men was remarkable. They stared in silent wonder, not unmixed with a kind of superstitious awe.

At long last clouds banked up and hid the sun, then, as if the enchanter had ceased to wave his wand, the spectres fled, and only blue-grey shadows remained to mark the places where the caves of beauty erst had spangled and shone.

On sailed the ship, on and on.

At last, one night, the mate on watch noticed a bright glare of light far away to the southward and east, and reported it to the captain.

Though it was long past midnight, the two men of the Resolute were roused and brought on deck.

The light, they said, had often been seen. It was that from a burning mountain, and was nothing now to what it sometimes appeared. Just here, too, they averred the wreck would be found.

So the San Salvador lay to till daybreak.

Both Fred and Captain Cawdor were on deck long before the first faint flush of dawn. But neither then nor when the sun crimsoned the waters to the east were any signs of human life to be seen.