It was on the second day after the capture of the tartane that the sun set in a purple angry-looking bank of cloud, and the sea began to heave in a manner which renewed the earlier distresses of the voyage to such as were bad sailors.  The sails both of the corsair and of the tartane were taken in, and it was plain that a rough night was to be expected.  The children were lashed into their berths, and all prepared themselves to endure.  The last time Arthur saw Madame de Bourke’s face, by the light of the lamp swinging furiously from the cabin roof, as he assisted in putting in the dead lights, it bore the same fixed expression of fortitude and resignation as when she was preparing to be boarded by the pirates.

He remained on deck, but it was very perilous, for the vessel was so low in the water that the waves dashed over it so wildly that he could hardly help being swept away.  It was pitch dark, too, and the lantern of the other vessel could only just be seen, now high above their heads, now sinking in the trouble of the sea, while the little tartane was lifted up as though on a mountain; and in a kind of giddy dream, he thought of falling headlong upon her deck.  Finally he found himself falling.  Was he washed overboard?  No; a sharp blow showed him that he had only fallen down the hatchway, and after lying still a moment, he heard the voices of Lanty and Hebert, and presently they were all tossed together by another lurch of the ship.

It was a night of miseries that seemed endless, and when a certain amount of light appeared, and Arthur and Lanty crawled upon deck, the tempest was unabated.  They found themselves still dashed, as if their vessel were a mere cork, on the huge waves; rushes of water coming over them, whether from sea or sky there was no knowing, for all seemed blended together in one mass of dark lurid gray; and where was the Algerine ship—­so lately their great enemy, now watched for as their guide and guardian?

It was no place nor time for questions, even could they have been heard or understood.  It was scarcely possible even to be heard by one another, and it was some time before they convinced themselves that the large vessel had disappeared.  The cable must have parted in the night, and they were running with bare poles before the gale; the seamanship of the man at the helm being confined to avoiding the more direct blows of the waves, on the huge crests of which the little tartane rode—­ gallantly perhaps in mariners’ eyes, but very wretchedly to the feelings of the unhappy landsmen within her.

Arthur thought of St. Paul, and remembered with dismay that it was many days before sun or moon appeared.  He managed to communicate his recollection to Lanty, who exclaimed, ’And he was a holy man, and he was a prisoner too.  He will feel for us if any man can in this sore strait!  Sancte Paule, ora pro nobis.  An’ haven’t I got the blessed scapulary about me neck that will bring me through worse than this?’