“Nettuno—­gallant Nettuno!”—­again drove over him, bringing with it the chilling certainty, that turned from his course by the rolling of the water he had thrown away these desperate efforts, by taking a direction which led him from the bark.  While there was the smallest appearance of success no difficulties, of whatever magnitude, could entirely extinguish hope; but when the dire conviction that he had been actually aiding, instead of diminishing the danger, pressed upon Sigismund, he abandoned his efforts.  The most he endeavored or hoped to achieve, was to keep his own head and that of his companion above the fatal element, while he answered the cry of Maso with a shout of despair.

“Nettuno!—­gallant Nettuno!”—­again flew past on the gale.

This cry might have been an answer, or it might merely be the Italian encouraging his dog to bear on the body, with which it was already loaded Sigismund uttered a shout, which he felt must be the last.  He struggled desperately, but in vain the world and its allurements were vanishing from his thoughts, when a dark line whirled over him, and fell thrashing upon the very wave which covered his face.  An instinctive grasp caught it, and the young soldier felt himself impelled ahead.  He had seized the rope which the mariner had not ceased to throw, as the fisherman casts his line, and he was at the side of the bark, before his confused faculties enabled him to understand the means employed for his rescue.

Maso took a hasty turn with the rope, and, stooping forward, favored by a roll of the vessel, he drew the Baron de Willading upon deck.  Watching his time, he repeated the experiment, always with admirable coolness and dexterity, placing Sigismund also in safety.  The former was immediately dragged senseless to the centre of the bark, where he received those attentions that had just been eagerly offered to the Signior Grimaldi, and with the same happy results.  But Sigismund motioned all away from himself, knowing that their cares were needed elsewhere.  He staggered forward a few paces, and then, yielding to a complete exhaustion of his power, he fell at full length on the wet planks.  He long lay panting, speechless, and unable to move, with a sense of death on his frame.

“Nettuno! gallant, gallant Nettuno!”—­shouted the indefatigable Maso, still at his post on the gangway, whence he cast his rope with unchanging perseverance.  The fitful winds, which had already played so many fierce antics that eventful night, sensibly lulled, and, giving one or two sighs, as if regretting that they were about to be curbed again by that almighty Master, from whose benevolent hands they had so furtively escaped, as suddenly ceased blowing.  The yards creaked, swinging loosely, above the crowded deck, and the dull washing of water filled the ear.  To these diminished sounds were to be added the barking of the dog, who was still abroad in the darkness, and a struggling noise like the broken and smothered