ous spectacle, quite unable to gaze any longer at it from
its association with his own rescue from a similar horrible death.

The men by Mr Meldrum's side, however--forgetting the past conduct of
the survivors of those in the longboat and the fact of their not only
having deserted them but even locked them below to drown in the hold of
the sinking ship--rushed into the water, eager, in the common exercise
of that humanity which is common to us all, but especially noticeable in
English sailors, to relieve the misery that was so apparent, and to
separate those who were living from those who had ceased to suffer; and,
of all these Good Samaritans, Mr McCarthy, who had been so bitter in
his denunciation of the mutineers, was the first to go forward, with
Frank and Mr Meldrum, you may be sure, not very far off.

"Only six out of the dozen that left the ship!" exclaimed Mr Meldrum to
the man in the stern-sheets, to whom he extended his hand to aid him in
getting out of the boat. "Where are the rest of your number?"

But the emaciated wretch--who seemed to have suffered considerable
bodily injury as well as want of food, for one of his arms hung down
powerless at his side, and there was a broad cut across his face from
some weapon--was as incapable of speech as he was apparently of moving.
His lips only worked feebly, without any sound coming from them, and he
stumbled and fell forwards on his face when he tried to rise by the aid
of Mr Meldrum's arm.

"Bedad, they're in a bad way, sorr," said Mr McCarthy sympathisingly,
coming up and helping Mr Meldrum to lift the man out and place him on
the beach, where he had already laid down the corpse that had been in
the bows, throwing a bit of the sail over it to hide it for the time
from observation. "The poor divil can't spake, sure. I wondther which
of them it wor? I'm blest if I can make him out, and I knew all the men
purty well, most of them being in my own watch, by the same token."

But just then, the stewardess saved him from puzzling over the man's
face any further.

"It's Llewellyn, my husband!" she cried out, pushing Mr McCarthy away,
and taking the almost lifeless figure he was supporting tenderly in her
arms, oblivious of everything save of her natural womanly pity and love.
"The poor fellow! the poor fellow!" and she burst into tears over the
miserable semblance of the man, who, coward and deserter as he had
proved himself to be, had yet once been dear to her a