ry of private Winch, in his last agony!'"

After this, conversation ceased for a time, and there was no noise but of
the storm, and the groanings of the ship and of the sick.

Frank could not sleep, but, clinging to his berth, and listening to the
shock of billows, thought of the other vessels of that brave fleet,
scattered and tossed, and wondered at the awful power of the sea.

Then he remembered the story Corporal Gray had that day told them of the
great Spanish Armada, which sailed in the days of Queen Elizabeth to
invade England, and was blown to its destruction by the storms of the
Almighty; and he questioned within himself whether this proud expedition
was destined for a similar fate. Already he seemed to hear the
lamentations of those at home, and the frantic rejoicings of the rebels.

The next morning the wind lulled; but the sea still ran high. The sun
rose upon a scene of awful grandeur. The schooner was sailing under the
few rags of canvas which had withstood the gale. The steamer was nowhere
in sight; but other vessels of the shattered fleet could be seen, some
near, and some half below the horizon, far out at sea. The waves,
white-capped, green-streaked, ceaselessly shifting, with dark blue
hollows and high-curved crests all bursting into foam, came chasing each
other, and passed on like sliding liquid hills, spurning the schooner
from their slippery backs.

"'Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean! roll! ten thousand fleets sweep
over thee in vain!'" observed Tucket, coming on deck with Frank, and
gazing around at the few tossed remnants of the storm-scattered
expedition.

Wild and terribly beautiful the scene was; and Frank, who had often
wished to behold the ocean in its fury, was now sufficiently recovered
from his sickness to enjoy the opportunity. Nor was the wondering delight
with which he saw the sun rise out of the deep, and shine across the
tumbling yeasty waves, at all diminished by the drolleries of his friend
Seth, who kept at his side, saying the queerest things, and ever and anon
shouting poetry to the running seas.

"'Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed, and the rent canvas
fluttering strew the gale, still must I on; for I am as a weed flung from
the rocks on Ocean's foam to sail, where'er secession breeds, or
treason's works prevail,'"--added Seth, altering the verse to suit the
occasion.

The fleet had indeed been rudely handled in that rough night off the
cape. But