My mind is full of the events of the past two days, and other thoughts crowd thickly upon me.  To-morrow afternoon we shall reach our destination.  To-morrow, I shall resume, on land, my attendance upon Thomas Roch, “if it be necessary,” said the Count d’Artigas.

If, when I was thrown into that black hole at the bottom of the hold, I was able to perceive when the schooner started off across Pamlico Sound, I now feel that she has come to a stop.  It must be about ten o’clock.

Why has she stopped?  When Captain Spade ordered me below, there was no land in sight.  In this direction, there is no island until the Bermuda group is reached—­at least there is none on the map—­and we shall have to go another fifty or sixty miles before the Bermudas can be sighted by the lookout men.  Not only has the Ebba stopped, but her immobility is almost complete.  There is not a breath of wind, and scarcely any swell, and her slight, regular rocking is hardly perceptible.

Then my thoughts turn to the merchantman, which was only a mile and a half off, on our bow, when I came below.  If the schooner continued her course towards her, she must be almost alongside now.  We certainly cannot be lying more than one or two cables’ length from her.  The three-master, which was becalmed at sundown, could not have gone west.  She must be close by, and if the night is clear, I shall be able to see her through the porthole.

It occurs to me, that perhaps a chance of escape presents itself.  Why should I not attempt it, since no hope of being restored to liberty is held out to me?  It is true I cannot swim, but if I seize a life buoy and jump overboard, I may be able to reach the ship, if I am not observed by the watch on deck.

I must quit my cabin and go up by the forward hatchway.  I listen.  I hear no noise, either in the men’s quarters, or on deck.  The sailors must all be asleep at this hour.  Here goes.

I try to open the door, and find it is bolted on the outside, as I might have expected.

I must give up the attempt, which, after all, had small chance of success.

The best thing I can do, is to go to sleep, for I am weary of mind, if not of body.  I am restless and racked by conflicting thoughts, and apprehensions of I know not what.  Oh! if I could but sink into the blessed oblivion of slumber!

I must have managed to fall asleep, for I have just been awakened by a noise—­an unusual noise, such as I have not hitherto heard on board the schooner.

Day begins to peer through the glass of my port-hole, which is turned towards the east.  I look at my watch.  It is half-past four.

The first thing I wonder is, whether the Ebba has resumed her voyage.

No, I am certain she has not, either by sail, or by her motor.  The sea is as calm at sunrise as it was at sunset.  If the Ebba has been going ahead while I slept, she is at any rate, stationary now.