By the time we had made a job of this ’twas quite dark, and having nothing more to do but to await the end, we stood side by side, too dejected to speak for some time, thinking of the cruelty of fate which rescued us from one evil only to plunge us in a worse.  At length, Jack fell to talking in a low tone of his past life, showing how things had ever gone ill with him and those he loved.

“I think,” says he in conclusion, “I am an unlucky man, Kit.  One of those who are born to be a curse against their will to others rather than a blessing.”

“Fie, Jack,” says I, “’tis an idle superstition.”

“Nay,” says he, “I am convinced ’tis the truth.  Not one of us here but would have been the happier had I died a dozen years ago.  ’Tis all through me that we drown to-night.”

“Nay, ’tis a blessing that we die all together, and none left to mourn.”

“That may be for you and me who have lived the best years of our life, but for those in there but just tasting the sweets of life, with years of joy unspent, ’tis another matter.”

Then we were silent for a while, till feeling the water laving my feet, I asked if we should not now tell Mr. Godwin of our condition.

“’Twas in my mind, Kit,” answers he; “I will send him out to you.”

He went into the cabin, and Mr. Godwin coming out, I showed him our state.  But ’twas no surprise to him.  Only, it being now about three in the morning, and the moon risen fair and full in the heavens, he casts his eyes along the silver path on the water in the hope of rescue, and finding none, he grasps my hand and says: 

“God’s will be done!  ’Tis a mercy that my dear love is spared this last terror.  Our pain will not be long.”

A shaft of moonlight entered the cabin, and there we perceived Dawson kneeling by the crib, with his head laid upon the pillow beside his daughter.

He rose and came out without again turning to look on Moll, and Mr. Godwin took his place.

“I feel more happy, Kit,” says Jack, laying his hand upon my shoulder.  “I do think God will be merciful to us.”

“Aye, surely,” says I, wilfully mistaking his meaning.  “I think the water hath risen no higher this last hour.”

“I’ll see how our sheet hangs; do you look if the water comes in yet at the sluice hole.”

And so, giving my arm a squeeze as he slips his hand from my shoulder, he went to the fore part of the vessel, while I crossed to the sluice hole, where the water was spurting through a chink.

I rose after jamming the jacket to staunch the leak, and turning towards Jack I perceived him standing by the bulwark, with the moon beyond.  And the next moment he was gone.  And so ended the life of this poor, loving, unlucky man.

I know not whether it was this lightening of our burden, or whether at that time some accident of a fold in the sail sucking into the leaking planks, stayed the further ingress of waters, but certain it is that after this we sank no deeper to any perceptible degree; and so it came about that we were sighted by a fishing-boat from Carthagena, a little after daybreak, and were saved—­we three who were left.