hisel. They are by the
hatchway, which they have opened, intending descent into the hold. With
the lantern concealed under the skirt of his ample dreadnought, Harry
Blew stands within the shadow of the mast, as if reflecting on his
faithlessness--ashamed to let his face be seen. He even appears
reluctant to proceed in the black business, while affecting the
opposite.

As the others are now occupied in various ways, with their eyes turned
from him, he steps out to the ship's side, and looks over the rail. The
moon is now full upon his face, which, under her soft innocent beams,
shows an expression difficult as ever to interpret. The most skilled
physiognomist could not read it. More than one emotion seem struggling
within his breast, mingling together, or succeeding each other, quick as
the changing hues of the chameleon. Now, as if cupidity, now remorse,
anon the dark shadow of despair!

This last growing darker, he draws nearer to the side, and looks
earnestly over, as if about to plunge into the briny deep, and so rid
himself of a life, ever after to be a burden!

While standing thus, apparently hesitating as to whether he shall drown
himself and have done with it, soft voices fall upon his ear, their
tones blending with the breeze, as it sweeps in melancholy cadence
through the rigging of the ship. Simultaneously there is a rustling of
dresses, and he sees two female forms robed in white, with short cloaks
thrown loosely over their shoulders, and kerchiefs covering their heads.

Stepping out on the quarterdeck, they stand for a short while, the moon
shining on their faces, both bright and innocent as her beams. Then
they stroll aft, little dreaming of the doom that awaits them.

That sight should soften his traitorous heart. Instead, it seems but to
steel it the more--as if their presence recalled and quickened within
him some vow of revenge. He hesitates no longer; but gliding back to
the hatch, climbs over its coaming, and, lantern in hand, drops down
into the hold--there to do a deed which neither light of moon nor sun
should shine upon.

Though within the tropic zone, and but a few degrees from the
equinoctial line, there is chillness in the air of the night, now
nearing its mid-hours.

Drawing their cloaks closer around them, the young ladies mount up to
the poop-deck, and stand resting their hands on the taffrail.

For a time they are silent; their eyes directed over the stern, watching
the