le, there was hope for us. At last they managed to get them into the
water, and keep them riding clear under our lee. The priests were
bundled in like so many wet bales of black cloth, and then the soldiers,
and Marston and I tried to follow; but a 'No room for heretics here,'
enforced by a bit of brown steel in a soldier's hands, kept us back. The
chance wasn't worth fighting for, after all. I didn't believe the
steamer would sink, any way. I was aboard the 'San Francisco' when she
drifted for nine days. However, there wasn't much time left for us to
speculate on that,--for a rush of firemen and crew and the like into
the boats was the next thing, and then the fasts were cast off or cut,
and the wind and sea did the rest. They shot away into the darkness. A
couple of firemen, two of the priests, and a soldier were left on board.
The firemen went to getting drunk,--the priests were too sick to move or
care for anything,--the soldier sat quietly down on the cabin-skylight;
Marston and I climbed on to the port paddle-box to look out for a sail.

"The clouds had broken with the dying of the gale, and the moon shone
out, lighting up the foaming sea far and wide, and showing our
water-logged or sinking craft. Every wave that swept over us found its
way below, and we settled deeper and deeper. Still, if we could only
hold on till morning, those seas are alive with small craft, and we
stood a good chance of being picked off. I was saying as much to Marston
when the 'Ercolano' gave a lurch and then dove bows first into the sea.
A great wave seemed to curl over us, and then to thrust us by the
shoulders down into the depths, and all was darkness and water. I went
down, down, and still I was dragged lower still, though the pressure
from above ceased, and I was struggling to rise. I struck out with hands
and feet;--I was held fast. I felt behind me and found a hand grasping
my coat-tails. Marston had seized me, and with the other hand was
clinging to the iron rail on the top of the paddle-box,--clinging with
the death-grip of a drowning man, if you know what that is. I tried to
unclasp the fingers,--to drive him from his hold on the rail. Of course
I couldn't; it was Death's hand, not his, that was holding there, and my
own strength was going, when a thought flashed into my mind. I tore open
my coat, and it slipped from me like a grape-skin from the grape, and I
went up like an arrow.

"Never shall I forget the blessed light of he