eep and unusual and tragical to
disturb a world with. But still I stared at that square, black bottle
of rum, believing, as faith may be, in the surcease it contained.

I watched that bottle.

"Dannie," says my uncle, with a wish, no doubt, for a diversion, "is
the moon up?"

I walked to the window. "'Tis up," I reported; "but 'tis hid by
clouds, an' the wind's rising."

"The wind rising?" says he. "'Twill do us no harm."

Of course, my uncle did not know which of us was at sea.

"The wind," he repeated, "will do no harm."

I sat down again: and presently got my glass before me, and reached
for the square, black bottle of rum. I could stand it no longer: I
could really stand it no longer--the pain of this denial of my love
was too much for any man to bear.

"I'll have a drop," says I, "for comfort."

My uncle's hand anticipated me.

"Ah!" says he. "For comfort, is it?"

Unhappily, he had the bottle in his hand. 'Twas quite beyond my
reach--done with any courtesy. I must wait for him to set it down
again. The jug was close enough, the glass, too; but the bottle was
in watchful custody. My uncle shook the bottle, and held it to the
lamp; he gauged its contents: 'twas still stout--he sighed. And now he
set it on the table, with his great, three-fingered hand about the
neck of it, so that all hope of possession departed from me: 'twas
a clutch too close and meaning to leave me room for hope. I heard
the wind, rising to a blow, but had no fret on that account: there
was none of us at sea, thank God! we were all ashore, with no care
for what the wind might do. I observed that my uncle was wrought up
to a pitch of concern to which he was not used. He had gone pale, who
was used, in exaltation of feeling, to go crimson and blue in the
scars of him; but he had now gone quite white and coldly sweaty, in a
ghastly way, with the black bottle held up before him, his wide
little eyes upon it. I had never before known him to be in fact
afraid; but he was now afraid, and I was persuaded of it, by his
pallor, by his trembling hand, by the white and stare of his eyes, by
the drooping lines of his poor, disfigured face. He turned from the
bottle to look at me; but I could not withstand the poignancy of
his regard: I looked away--feeling some shame, for which I could not
account to myself. And then he sighed, and clapped the black
bottle on the table, with a thump that startled me; and he looked
towards me with a resolution