“The poor man is so fagged out,” said Mrs. Clayton, as she brought in my broth and wine, “that his very voice is changed.  He is a good soul, and has shown you great interest.  Some day you must send him a present, that is, if you are able; but just now all you have to think of is getting safe ashore.  Lady Anastasia will go to her friends, probably, or to those of the gentleman she is engaged to; but I do not mean to forsake you until I see you better, and in good hands.”

I know not how it was that my heart sank so strangely at this announcement.  The woman was kind—­tender, even—­and had probably saved my life, and yet her presence to me was a punishment worse than pain, a positive evil greater than any other.

“I shall go to the Astor House,” I faltered.  “The captain has promised me his escort thither.”

“Yes, yes, I know, he has told me all about it; but your friends may not be in waiting, and it is simply our duty to see you in their hands.  And now drink your sangaree.  See, I have broken a biscuit in the glass, and it is well seasoned with lemon and nutmeg.  There, now, that is right; a few spoonfuls of soup, and you will feel strengthened for your undertaking.  I will sit quietly in the corner until you have your rest.”

“No, I prefer to see Christian Garth before I try to sleep—­the man who steered our raft—­and the young girl he saved, and the baby—­let them all come to me, and we will go on shore together.”

I spoke these words with a sort of desperation, as though they contained my last hope of justice or protection from a fate which, however obscurely, seemed to threaten me, as we feel the thunder-storm brooding in the tranquil atmosphere of summer.

“Christian Garth!” she repeated, looking at me over her tortoise-shell spectacles, and, quietly drawing out a snuffbox of the same material, she proceeded to fill her narrow nostrils therewith.  “Why, that shaggy-looking old sailor, and the girl, and the old negro woman and child, went on shore at daylight this morning.  He hailed a Jersey craft, and they all left together.  It is perfectly understood, though, that the child is to be returned to you if you desire its company, but, if I were situated as you are, and sure of its safety, I would never want to see it again.  It would be better off dead than living anyhow, under the circumstances, poor, deformed creature—­better for both of you.”

The words came to me distinctly, yet as if from an immense distance, and I seemed to see the small chamber lengthening as if it had been a telescope unfolding, and the sallow woman with her hateful smile and tightly-knotted, brindled hair seated in diminished size and distinctness at its farthest extremity.

So had I felt on that fearful night when Evelyn had made her revelation and received mine, and I did not doubt, even in my sinking state, that I was under the influence of a powerful anodyne.

“Call the ship’s doctor—­I am dying!” were the last words I remember to have articulated; then all was dark, and hours went by, of deep, unconscious sleep.