The vessel was now in deadly peril, and ere long what we had feared took place.  The cables on her bows snapped, and she was dashed upon the rocks half a cable’s length from the shore.  A cry of grief burst from every breast.

Paul was about to fling himself into the sea, when I seized him by the arm.

“Oh. let me go to her rescue,” he cried, “or let me die!”

I tied a rope round his waist, and he advanced toward the ship, sometimes walking, sometimes swimming.  He hoped to get on board the vessel, for the sea in its irregular movements left her almost dry.  But presently it returned with redoubled fury, and the unhappy Paul was hurled back upon the shore, bleeding, bruised, and senseless.

The ship was now going to pieces, and the despairing crew were flinging themselves into the sea.  On the stern gallery stood Virginia, stretching out her arms towards the lover who sought to save her.  When he was thrust back she waved her hand towards us, as if bidding us an eternal farewell.

One sailor remained with her, striving to persuade her to undress and try to swim ashore.  With a dignified gesture she repelled him.  Then a prodigious mountain of water swept towards the vessel.  The sailor sprang off, and was carried ashore.  Virginia vanished from our sight.

We found her body on the beach of a bay near at hand, whither much of the wreckage had been carried.  Her eyes were closed, but her countenance showed perfect calm; only the pale violet of death blended itself upon her cheeks with the rose of modesty.  One of her hands was firmly closed.  I disengaged from it, with much difficulty, a little casket; within the casket was a portrait of Paul—­a gift from him which she had promised never to part with while she lived.

Paul was taken home stretched on a palanquin.  His coming brought a ray of comfort to the unhappy mothers; the tears, which had been till then restrained through excess of sorrow, now began to flow, and, nature being thus relieved, all the three bereaved ones fell into a lethargic repose.

It was three weeks ere Paul was sufficiently recovered to walk.  For day after day, when his strength was restored, he wandered among the places endeared to him by memories of Virginia.  His eyes grew hollow, his colour faded, his health gradually but visibly declined.  I strove to mitigate his feelings by giving him change of scene, by taking him to the busy inhabited parts of the island.  My efforts proving quite ineffectual, I tried to console him by reminding him that Virginia had gained eternal happiness.

“Since death is a blessing, and Virginia is happy,” he replied mournfully, “I will die, also, that I may again be united to her.”

Thus, the consolation I sought to administer only aggravated his despair.

Paul died two months after his beloved Virginia, whose name was ever on his lips to the last.  Margaret survived her son only by a week, and Madame de la Tour, who had borne all her terrible losses with a greatness of soul beyond belief, lived but another month.