“Let Grace alone,” said the younger of the boatmen, seeing my affliction at the lamentable catastrophe, “if there be but a spark of life in the gentleman, she’ll bring him round—­many’s the drowning man—­aye, and wounded one, too—­that’s been brought in here during the stormy nights, and after fights with the coast-guard—­that she’s recovered.”

Hot bottles, and hot flannels, and hot bricks were all applied, but in vain; and when I saw hot brandy, too, fail of having the desired effect, I gave my friend up as lost, and left the hut to vent my grief in the open air.  Grace was more sanguine and persevering, and when I returned, after a half-hour’s absence, I could distinctly feel a returning pulse.  Still, he gave no symptoms of animation, and it might only be the effect produced by the applications—­as he remained in the same state for several hours.  Fresh wood was added to the fire, and the boatmen having returned to their vessel, Grace and I proceeded to keep watch during the night, or until the arrival of a doctor.  The poor old body, to whom scenes such as this were matter of frequent occurrence, seemed to think nothing of it, and proceeded to relate some of the wonderful escapes and recoveries she had witnessed, in the course of which she dropped many a sigh to the memory of some of her friends—­the bold smugglers.  There were no such “braw lads” now as formerly, she said, and were it not that “she was past eighty, and might as weel die in one place as anither, she wad gang back to the bonny blue hulls (hills) of her ain canny Scotland.”

In the middle of one of her long stories I thought I perceived a movement of the bedclothes, and, going to look, I found a considerable increase in the quickness of pulsation, and also a generous sort of glow upon the skin.  “An’ ded I no tell ye I wad recover him?” said she, with a triumphant look.  “Afore twa mair hours are o’er he’ll spak to ye.”  “I hope so, I’m sure,” said I, still almost doubting her.  “Oh, trust to me,” said she, “he’ll come about—­I’ve seen mony a chiel in a mickle worse state nor him recovered.  Pray, is the ould gintleman your father or your grandfather?”

Yorkshireman. Why, I can’t say that he’s either exactly—­but he’s always been as good as a grandmother to me, I know.

Grace was right.  About three o’clock in the morning a sort of revulsion of nature took place, and after having lain insensible, and to all appearance lifeless, all that time, he suddenly began to move.  Casting his eye wildly around, he seemed lost in amazement.  He muttered something, but what it was I could not catch.

“Lush-crib again, by Jove!” were the first words he articulated, and then, appearing to recollect himself, he added, “Oh, I forgot, I’m drowned—­well drowned, too—­can’t be help’d, however—­wasn’t born to be hanged—­and that seems clear.”  Thus he kept muttering and mumbling for an hour, until old Grace thinking him so far recovered as to remove all danger from sudden surprise, allowed me to take her seat at the bedside.  He looked at me long and intensely, but the light was not sufficiently strong to enable him to make out who I was.