crops up in spite of you.  You have tried to bury it in your soul, and you have failed.  It is your remorse that has driven you to make so many attempts against the only living souls who knew and understood.  If ever we get safely to land once more—­and God knows it is not likely—­I give you still the chance of repairing the mischief you have done, and of clearing my father’s memory from the cruel stain which you and only you can wipe away.”

Sebastian lay long, silent once more, gazing up at her fixedly, with the foggy, white moonlight shining upon his bright, inscrutable eyes.  “You are a brave woman, Maisie Yorke-Bannerman,” he said, at last, slowly; “a very brave woman.  I will try to live—­I too—­for a purpose of my own.  I say it again:  he that loseth his life shall gain it.”

Incredible as it may sound, in half an hour more he was lying fast asleep on that wave-tossed raft, and Hilda and I were watching him tenderly.  And it seemed to us as we watched him that a change had come over those stern and impassive features.  They had softened and melted until his face was that of a gentler and better type.  It was as if some inward change of soul was moulding the fierce old Professor into a nobler and more venerable man.

Day after day we drifted on, without food or water.  The agony was terrible; I will not attempt to describe it, for to do so is to bring it back too clearly to my memory.  Hilda and I, being younger and stronger, bore up against it well; but Sebastian, old and worn, and still weak from the plague, grew daily weaker.  His pulse just beat, and sometimes I could hardly feel it thrill under my finger.  He became delirious, and murmured much about Yorke-Bannerman’s daughter.  Sometimes he forgot all, and spoke to me in the friendly terms of our old acquaintance at Nathaniel’s, giving me directions and advice about imaginary operations.  Hour after hour we watched for a sail, and no sail appeared.  One could hardly believe we could toss about so long in the main highway of traffic without seeing a ship or spying more than the smoke-trail of some passing steamer.

As far as I could judge, during those days and nights, the wind veered from south-west to south-east, and carried us steadily and surely towards the open Atlantic.  On the third evening out, about five o’clock, I saw a dark object on the horizon.  Was it moving towards us?  We strained our eyes in breathless suspense.  A minute passed, and then another.  Yes, there could be no doubt.  It grew larger and larger.  It was a ship—­a steamer.  We made all the signs of distress we could manage.  I stood up and waved Hilda’s white shawl frantically in the air.  There was half an hour of suspense, and our hearts sank as we thought that they were about to pass us.  Then the steamer hove to a little and seemed to notice us.  Next instant we dropped upon our knees, for we saw they were lowering a boat.  They were coming to our aid.  They would be in time to save us.