at our hollow cheeks—­our eyes sunken deep, but glaring like red-hot coals—­our long beards and haggard faces—­every one ready to raise his hand against the other.  The poor woman never complained or said a word after she left off singing; her thoughts appeared elsewhere.  She sat for hours motionless, with her eyes fixed on the still blue water, as if she would pierce its depth.

“’At last the negro came aft; and we were each upon our guard as he passed us, for we had seen him sharpen his knife.  He went to the sternsheets, where the poor woman sat, and we all knew what he intended to do, for he only acted our own thoughts.  She was still hanging over the gunnel, with her eyes fixed downward, and she heeded not his approach.  He caught her by the hair, and dragged her head toward him.  She then held out her arms toward me, faintly calling me by name; but I—­shame on me!—­remained sitting on the afterthwart.  The negro thrust his knife into her neck, below the ear; and, as soon as he had divided the artery, he glued his thick lips to the gash and sucked her blood.

“’When the deed was done, others rose up and would have shared; but the negro kept his white eyes directed toward them—­one arm thrust out, with his knife pointed at them, as he slaked his thirst, while, with his other round her waist, he supported her dying frame.  The attitude was that of fondness, while the deed was—­murder.  He appeared as if he were caressing her, while her life’s blood poured into his throat.  At last we all drew our knives; and the negro knew that he must resign his prey or his life.  He dropped the woman, and she fell, with her face forward, at my feet.  She was quite dead.  And then—­our hunger was relieved.

“’Three days passed away, and again we were mad for want of water—­when we saw a vessel.  We shouted, and shook hands, and threw out the oars, and pulled as if we had never suffered.  It was still calm, and, as we approached the vessel, we threw what remained of the poor woman into the sea; and the sharks finished what we had left.  We agreed to say nothing about her, for we were ashamed of ourselves.

“’Now I did not murder, but I did not prevent it; and I have ever since been haunted by this poor woman.  I see her and the negro constantly before me, and then I think of what passed, and I turn sick.  I feel that I ought to have saved her—­she is always holding out her arms to me, and I hear her faintly call “Charles”—­then I read my Bible—­and she disappears, and I feel as if I were forgiven.  Tell me, what do you think, messmate?’

“‘Why,’ replied I, ’sarcumstances will make us do what we otherwise would never think possible.  I never was in such a predicament, and therefore can’t tell what people may be brought to do.  But tell me, messmate, what was the name of the poor woman?’

[Illustration:  ANDERSON READING THE BIBLE TO JACK.—­Marryat, Vol.  X., p. 89.]

“‘The husband’s name was Ben Rivers.’