“Oh, no! no! no! not with that low, terrible roaring in the hold.  The fire is gaining strength, and our agony will soon he over.”

I sat with, clasped hands and bowed head before her, insensible to her words.  I suppose she strove to strengthen me.  I think she tried to soothe.  Failing in both, she rose and went away, and in her place came Christian Garth, relieved from the helm, and stood a moment beside me.

“Don’t be down-hearted, young gal, an’ wait for me.  Ef the Lord lets me, I will save you, and the old lady, too; that is, ef she is your aunt or mother or near of kin.”

I shook my head drearily.

“You have no hope, then, Mr. Garth?”

“Hope? yes; the best of hope—­the Christian’s hope.  God can do any thing He pleases, we all know, and He may stretch forth his hand when all seems dark; but Captain Ambrose is not one to run a risk of that sort, so he has sent me to work upon a raft—­one of two he is making for the seamen if the wust comes to the wust.  But you see, I have been on lost ships afore now, an’ I know there is no larboard nor starboard rules when men are skeered.  So I shall make my raft to hold the womenfolk, for the boats will be for the sailors—­mark my word—­and them that’s wise will wait till the press is over and take the rafts.”

“There are little children,” I said; “six of them belonging to that lady and Mr. Lamarque.  Don’t forget them, Mr. Garth, and the poor little widow coming now to claim her baby; this miserable little creature I am holding until she breakfasts.  Don’t lose sight of these, either, in the crowd, if, indeed, we are obliged to have recourse to your raft.”

“Pray rayther that it may float us all to safety,” he said, sternly, “for your best chance of being saved will be on that raft, if matters go as I think they will.  Trust me, for I will come;” and he passed away just before the little widow came to my side again.

“I came up as soon as I could, to relieve you.  I know how cross baby is when he gets restless, and I was afraid you might tire of him.  See!  I have brought his bread, and this waiter of tea and toast for you; now you must take a mouthful.”

She knew nothing of our danger, it was plain.  “Did you leave the other passengers at table?” I asked; “the captain, was he there?”

The question was never answered, for the attention of my interlocutor was riveted now, as was my own, on the companion-way, from which a wild and frightened-looking crowd was densely emerging, with a confused hum of voices that announced their recognition of their impending danger.  The change of age, of pain, of woe, seemed sealed upon each aspect, as one by one, and phantom-like, in rapid succession, those who had so lately gone down to feast returned to the upper day, like grim ghosts coming from a church-yard carnival.

It was a sight to stir the stoutest spirit.

At the close of the repast, the captain had announced the truth, to his passengers, and followed them now to enjoin them to firmness and efficiency, both so greatly needed at this crisis.