at behold her on board the _Pride_
hold their breath. They know she is rowing to destruction.

It is awful, and even brave Sir Sidney turns a little as the boat
reaches the doomed ship, and the men are seen clambering up her sides.
At that dreadful moment a huge cloud of smoke, balloon shaped, rises
high above the _Desespere_, a sheet of flame shoots into the air, and
yards, and masts, and spars, and men are seen high above all. A sound
far louder than thunder shakes the _Pride_ from stern to stern. Sir
Sidney presses his hand to his eyes and holds it there for a time. When
he takes it away at last the _Desespere_ has gone. A few blackened spars
bob here and there on the waves, and the cloud rolls far to leeward, but
the silence of death is over all the scene.

* * * * *

Tom Fairlie sat late that night beside poor Jack's couch. Jack's brow
was bound in blood-wet bandages, his eyes were closed.

"O doctor," said Tom anxiously, as his eyes sought those of Surgeon
M'Hearty, "is there _no_ hope? Surely Jack will live?"

"Jack's in God's good hands, lad," was the solemn reply, "and I am but
his servant."

The surgeon went slowly away, nor turned to look again.

"Poor Jack! poor Jack!" cried Tom; "and on his birthday too!"

He bent over the hardly breathing form, and tears welled through his
fingers. He had never known till now how much he loved his shipmate.

Would Jack die? His wounds were very grievous. "He is in God's good
hands," the doctor had said.

Tom Fairlie was a thorough English sailor--no better and no worse than
the average. He attended church on Sunday, and was always on the
quarter-deck when the bell rang for prayers; but the actual praying, I
fear, he usually left to the parson himself. If asked, Tom would have
told you that it was the parson's duty to make it all right with the
Great Commander above in behalf of himself and shipmates; but now it
occurred to Tom that he might himself personally address the Being in
whose hands poor Jack lay. God was good. Dr. M'Hearty had said so, and
the doctor knew almost everything. He hesitated for a few moments,
though. It seemed like taking the parson's duty out of his hands. Was it
impertinence? He looked at Jack's poor, white, still face--looked just
once, then knelt and prayed--prayed a simple sailor's prayer that isn't
to be found anywhere in a book, but may be none the less effectual on
that account.

When Tom rose from