“Nay, my good brother,” and Gerald made an attempt at levity, “you are indeed an unsparing monitor; but suppose I should offer in reply, that a spirit of enterprize was upon me on the occasion to which you allude, and that, fired by a desire to astonish you all with a bold feat, I had resolved to do what no other had done before me, yet without apprehending the serious consequences which ensued—­or even assuming the danger to have been so great.”

“All this, Gerald, you might, yet would not say; because, in saying it, would have to charge yourself with a gross insincerity, and although you do not deem me worthy to share your confidence, I still have pleasure in knowing that my affection will not be repaid with deceit—­however plausible the motives for its adoption may appear—­by the substitution in short, of that which is not for that which is.”

“A gross insincerity?” repeated Gerald, again slightly coloring.

“Yes, my brother—­I say it not in anger, nor in reproach.—­ but a gross insincerity it would certainly be.  Alas, Gerald, your motives are but too well known to me.  The danger you incurred was incurred wilfully, wantonly, and with a view to your own destruction.”

Gerald started.  The color had again fled from his sunken cheek, and he was ashy pale; “And how knew you this,” he asked with a trembling voice.

“Even, Gerald, as I know that you have been driven to seek in wine that upbearing against the secret grief which consumes you, which should be found alone in the fortitude of a strong mind, and the consciousness of an untainted honor.  Oh, Gerald, had these been your supporters, you never would have steeped your reason so far in forgetfulness, as to have dared what you did on that eventful day.  Good Heaven! how little did I ever expect to see the brother of my love degenerated so far as to border on the character of the drunkard and the suicide.”

The quick, but sunken eyes of the sailor flashed fire; and he pressed his lips, and clenched his teeth together as one strongly attempting to restrain his indignation.  It was but a momentary flashing of the chafed and bruised spirit.

“You probe me deeply, Henry,” he said calmly, and in a voice of much melancholy.  “These are severe expressions for a brother to use—­but you are right—­I did seek oblivion of my wretchedness in that whirlpool, as the only means of destroying the worm that feeds incessantly upon my heart; but Providence has willed it otherwise—­ and, moreover, I had not taken the danger of my faithful servant into the account.  Had Sambo not saved me, I must have perished, for I made not the slightest effort to preserve myself.  However it matters but little, the mere manner of one’s death,” he pursued with increased despondency.  “It is easy for you, Henry, whose mind is at peace with itself and the world, to preach fortitude and resignation, but, felt you the burning flame which scorches my vitals, you would acknowledge the wide, wide difference between theory and practice.”