It was about ten o’clock on the evening immediately preceding that on which they expected to gain their destination, that, as Gerald leaned ruminating over the side of the schooner, then going at the slow rate of two knots an hour, he fancied be heard voices, in a subdued tone, ascending apparently from the quarter of the vessel in which Desborough was confined.  He listened attentively for a few moments, but even the slight gurgling of the water, as it was thrown from the prow, prevented further recognition.  Deeming it possible that the sounds might not proceed from the place of confinement of the settler, but from the cabin which it adjoined, and with which it communicated, he was for a short time undecided whether or not he should disturb the party already retired to rest, by descending and passing into the room occupied by his prisoner.  Anxiety to satisfy himself that the latter was secure determined him, and he had already planted a foot on the companion-ladder, when his further descent was arrested by Miss Montgomerie, who appeared emerging from the opening, bonneted and cloaked, as with a view of continuing on deck.

“What! you, dearest Matilda?” he asked, delightedly—­“I thought you had long since retired to rest.”

“To rest, Gerald!—­can you, then, imagine mine is a soul to slumber, when I know that tomorrow we part—­perhaps for ever?”

“No, by Heaven! not for ever,” energetically returned the sailor, seizing and carrying the white hand that pressed his own, to his lips—­“be but faithful to me, my own Matilda—­love me but with one half the ardor with which my soul glows for you, and the moment duty can be sacrificed to affection, you may expect again to see me.”

“Duty!” repeated the American, with something like reproach in her tone—­“must the happiness of her you profess so ardently to love, be sacrificed to a mere cold sense of duty?  But you are right—­you have your duty to perform, and I have mine.  Tomorrow we separate, and for ever.”

“No, Matilda—­not for ever, unless, indeed, such be your determination.  You may find the task to forget an easy one—­I never can.  Hope—­heart—­life—­happiness—­all are centered in you.  Were it not that honour demands my service to my country, I would fly with you tomorrow, delighted to encounter every difficulty fortune might oppose, if, by successfully combating these, I should establish a deeper claim on your affection.  Oh, Matilda!” continued the impassioned youth, “never did I feel more than at this moment, how devotedly I could be your slave for ever.”

At the commencement of this conversation, Miss Montgomerie had gently led her lover towards the outer gangway of the vessel, over which they both now leaned.  As Gerald made the last passionate avowal of his tenderness, a ray of triumphant expression, clearly visible in the light of the setting moon, passed over the features of the American.