“And thou whom I dare not name, wouldst thou mourn to see me preceding thee to a place where we can love one another without wrong—­where nothing will prevent our union—­where all pernicious prejudices, all arbitrary exclusions, all hateful passions, and all tyranny, are silent?  I shall wait for thee, then, and rest!”

So centred were my dying thoughts on Wentworth—­so calmly did I await the great change that men call sudden death!

All this time—­a time much briefer than that I have taken in recounting my sensations—­the glorious summer’s sun, the sun of morning, was bathing the sea; the ship, with beauty, and a soft, fresh breeze, was fanning every pallid brow with a caressing, silken wing, that seemed to mock its wretchedness.

I thought not once of Christian Garth.  I had ceased to strain my eyes for a distant sail, to seek to compromise with my fate or make conditions with my Creator.  Dunmore was forgotten.  I was composed to die—­not resigned.  These things are different; a bitter patience possessed me that I felt would sustain me to the end, but I was not satisfied that my doom was just or opportune.

“Farewell, sweet, young, vigorous life!” I moaned aloud.  “Farewell, Miriam!  It will not be thou, but a phantom, that shall arise from dead ashes!  Farewell, dear hand, that hast served me long and well!” and I kissed my own right hand.  I had not known until that moment how truly I loved myself.  “Sister, lover, farewell!  Mother, father, receive me!  Gentle Constance, reach forth thy guiding hand and lead me to my parents!  Wentworth, remember me!  Saviour, my soul is thine!”

I bowed my head.  I had no more to say.  Unwilling I was to die—­afraid I was not; for, as I sat there, my whole life swept before me, as it is said to do before the eyes of the drowning, and rapidly as one may sweep the gamut on a piano with one introverted finger, and I saw myself as though I had been another.  I had done nothing to make me afraid to meet my God; so, with closed eyes, I lingered in the shadow, conscious of nothing save exceeding calm, when the grasp of my gentle friend of the moment aroused me to a sense of what was occurring, and I saw, with horror indescribable, the fierce flames leaping from the deck, heard the hoarse shouts, beheld the lurid surging of an agonized and despairing multitude!  But above all rang the clear, trumpet-tones of Captain Ambrose, soon to sink in death: 

“To the boats—­to the boats! but save the women first—­the children—­as ye are Christian men!  So help ye, mighty God!”

I heard later how signally this noble charge was disregarded; how utterly self triumphed over generosity and duty; and how, in enforcing the example all should have followed.  Captain Ambrose lost his valiant, valuable life.  But this was thought nothing of then, and I sat patiently down to perish!

CHAPTER IV.