of mine when the ship foundered.  It used to be a great comfort to me, and I think to those with me also, after we had seen the last of the Golden Mary, to see the Golden Lucy, held up by the men in the Long-boat, when the weather allowed it, as the best and brightest sight they had to show.  She looked, at the distance we saw her from, almost like a little white bird in the air.  To miss her for the first time, when the weather lulled a little again, and we all looked out for our white bird and looked in vain, was a sore disappointment.  To see the men’s heads bowed down and the captain’s hand pointing into the sea when we hailed the Long-boat, a few days after, gave me as heavy a shock and as sharp a pang of heartache to bear as ever I remember suffering in all my life.  I only mention these things to show that if I did give way a little at first, under the dread that our captain was lost to us, it was not without having been a good deal shaken beforehand by more trials of one sort or another than often fall to one man’s share.

I had got over the choking in my throat with the help of a drop of water, and had steadied my mind again so as to be prepared against the worst, when I heard the hail (Lord help the poor fellows, how weak it sounded!)—­

“Surf-boat, ahoy!”

I looked up, and there were our companions in misfortune tossing abreast of us; not so near that we could make out the features of any of them, but near enough, with some exertion for people in our condition, to make their voices heard in the intervals when the wind was weakest.

I answered the hail, and waited a bit, and heard nothing, and then sung out the captain’s name.  The voice that replied did not sound like his; the words that reached us were: 

“Chief-mate wanted on board!”

Every man of my crew knew what that meant as well as I did.  As second officer in command, there could be but one reason for wanting me on board the Long-boat.  A groan went all round us, and my men looked darkly in each other’s faces, and whispered under their breaths: 

“The captain is dead!”

I commanded them to be silent, and not to make too sure of bad news, at such a pass as things had now come to with us.  Then, hailing the Long-boat, I signified that I was ready to go on board when the weather would let me—­stopped a bit to draw a good long breath—­and then called out as loud as I could the dreadful question: 

“Is the captain dead?”

The black figures of three or four men in the after-part of the Long-boat all stooped down together as my voice reached them.  They were lost to view for about a minute; then appeared again—­one man among them was held up on his feet by the rest, and he hailed back the blessed words (a very faint hope went a very long way with people in our desperate situation):  “Not yet!”