the way on deck, was now struck into the water, and was towing astern, in waiting for the moment when Carlo Giuntotardi and his niece were to be put in possession of it again, and permitted to depart.  This moment was delayed, however, until the ship should again double Campanella, and be once more in the Bay of Naples, as it would have been cruel to send two such persons as the uncle and niece adrift at any material distance from their proper place of landing.

It was very different with Raoul Yvard, however.  He was under the charge of a sentry on the berth-deck, in waiting for the fearful moment when he should be brought forth for execution.  His sentence was generally known in the ship, and with a few he was an object of interest; though punishment, deaths in battle, and all the other casualties of nautical life, were much too familiar in such a war to awaken anything like a sensation in an active cruising frigate.  Still, some had a thought for the prisoner’s situation.  Winchester was a humane man, and, to his credit, he bore no malice for his own defeat and sufferings; while in his capacity of first lieutenant it was in his power to do much toward adding to the comfort of the condemned.  He had placed the prisoner between two open ports, where the air circulated freely, no trifling consideration in so warm a climate, and had ordered a canvas bulkhead to be placed around him, giving Raoul the benefit of a state-room for his meditations at so awful a moment.  His irons, too, had been removed as useless; though care had been had to take away from the prisoner everything by which he might attempt his own life.  The probability of his jumping through a port had been discussed between the first and second lieutenants; but the sentry was admonished to be on his guard against any such attempt, and little apprehension was felt, Raoul being so composed and so unlikely to do anything precipitately.  Then it would be easy to pick him up, while the vessel moved so slowly.  To own the truth, too, many would prefer his drowning himself, to seeing him swinging at a yard-arm.

In this narrow prison, then, Raoul passed the night and morning.  It would be representing him as more stoical than the truth, if we said he was unmoved.  So far from this, his moments were bitter, and his anguish would have been extreme, were it not for a high resolution which prompted him to die, as he fancied it, like un Francais.  The numerous executions by the guillotine had brought fortitude under such circumstances into a sort of fashion, and there were few who did not meet death with decorum.  With our prisoner, however, it was still different; for, sustained by a dauntless spirit, he would have faced the great tyrant of the race, even in his most ruthless mood, with firmness, if not with disdain.  But, to a young man and a lover, the last great change could not well approach without bringing with it a feeling of hopelessness that, in the case of Raoul,