Here, with the aid of their telescopes, they again distinctly commanded a view of the vessel, which lay motionless close under the sandy beach of the island, and exhibiting all the technicalities of skill in the disposition of sails and yards peculiar to the profession.  In vain, however, was every eye strained to discover, among the multitude of savages that kept momentarily leaping to her deck, the forms of those in whom they were most interested.  A group of some half dozen men, apparently common sailors, and those, in all probability, whose services had been compelled in the working of the vessel, were the only evidences that civilised man formed a portion of that grotesque assemblage.  These, with their arms evidently bound behind their backs, and placed on one of the gangways, were only visible at intervals, as the band of savages that surrounded them, brandishing their tomahawks around their heads, occasionally left an opening in their circle.  The formidable warrior of the Fleur de lis was no longer to be seen, although the flag which he had hoisted still fluttered in the breeze.

“All is lost, then,” ejaculated the governor, with a mournfulness of voice and manner that caused many of his officers to turn and regard him with surprise.  “That black flag announces the triumph of my foe in the too certain destruction of my children.  Now, indeed,” he concluded in a lower tone, “for the first time, does the curse of Ellen Halloway sit heavily on my soul.”

A deep sigh burst from one immediately behind him.  The governor turned suddenly round, and beheld his son.  Never did human countenance wear a character of more poignant misery than that of the unhappy Charles at the moment.  Attracted by the report of the cannon, he had flown to the rampart to ascertain the cause, and had reached his companions only to learn the strong hope so recently kindled in his breast was fled for ever.  His cheek, over which hung his neglected hair, was now pale as marble, and his lips bloodless and parted; yet, notwithstanding this intensity of personal sorrow, a tear had started to his eye, apparently wrung from him by this unusual expression of dismay in his father.

“Charles—­my son—­my only now remaining child,” murmured the governor with emotion, as he remarked, and started at the death-like image of the youth; “look not thus, or you will utterly unman me.”

A sudden and involuntary impulse caused him to extend his arms.  The young officer sprang forward into the proffered embrace, and sank his head upon the cheek of his father.  It was the first time he had enjoyed that privilege since his childhood; and even overwhelmed as he was by his affliction, he felt it deeply.

This short but touching scene was witnessed by their companions, without levity in any, and with emotion by several.  None felt more gratified at this demonstration of parental affection for the sensitive boy, than Blessington and Erskine.