Without doubt Crispin’s star was in the ascendant when he left Melnos on that perilous voyage to Syra, for in a very short space of time he was picked up by a Cretan steamer, and, on his arrival at his destination, found the yacht lying in the harbor. Owing to her likeness to the unfortunate Eunice which had been wrecked, he had no difficulty in recognizing her among the gay-colored caiques and steamers from all countries which thronged in the bay below the white town of Syra. Hurrying at once on board, he was met by the Rector, Mrs. Dengelton, and Eunice, who were both surprised and delighted to see him so soon after their arrival in the Ægean. A long conversation at once ensued between the four, and Crispin described the perilous position in which he had left Justinian, much to the astonishment of the Rector, who could not understand that pirates still existed. As for Mrs. Dengelton, she asserted that no power on earth would induce her to go to Melnos, where there were so many dangers; but in this selfish determination she was overruled by her daughter and Mr. Carriston.

It having been settled that all on board would remain, Crispin, in company with Gurt, hurried off to see the Eparch, and, on explaining the state of Melnos to him, managed to obtain about fifty men in order to assist the besieged. They were marched on board at once; and late next day the yacht set sail for the Island of Fantasy, with every one in a fearful state of excitement at the prospect of coming adventures.

During the voyage they met with a head wind, but this made but little difference to The Eunice, which, beating the water with her powerful screw, forged steadily ahead in spite of wind and wave. The Hon. Mrs. Dengelton had long since recovered from sea-sickness, and was now as lively as ever, chatting gayly with Mr. Carriston, while Crispin, now being for the time at leisure, made love to Eunice. Both the lovers were in the seventh heaven of happiness at thus being reunited, and, had it not been for the state of uncertainty he felt about Melnos, Crispin would have been perfectly happy. For a wonder, Mrs. Dengelton had kept her promise, and not persuaded Eunice to marry any one else; for which honorable conduct she deserved no praise, for as yet Crispin was the wealthiest suitor The Parrot had secured for her daughter. The lady, however, made a virtue of necessity, and frequently pointed out to Crispin how straightforwardly she had behaved, for which meritorious conduct the poet was duly thankful.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Dengelton, recovering her breath after a long harangue; “when I make a promise I keep it. I said, Find out whom you are, and you shall have my daughter. Well, here is Eunice, and here am I, both waiting for the promised explanation. Now, then, Mr. Crispin, who are you?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Do you mean to say you cannot find out?” screamed the lady.

“No, I don’t say so, Mrs. Dengelton. As soon as we arrive at Melnos, Justinian will tell me everything I and you desire to know.”

“Justinian!” echoed Mrs. Dengelton crossly, determined not to be satisfied. “Oh, dear Mr. Crispin, do not call my brother by that heathenish name!”

“It is an honorable name!” said the Rector good-naturedly. “You know it was Justinian, the Emperor of the East, who built St. Sophia, and was the author of the Pandects. My old friend Rudolph could scarcely have chosen a more suitable name for a lawgiver.”

“It is really wonderful to think of Rudolph still being alive,” mused Mrs. Dengelton, taking no notice of the Rector’s historical explanation. “It will be like meeting a stranger, for I was a child in long clothes when he left England.”

“Yes; fifty years does make a difference.”

“Fifty years!” shrieked Mrs. Dengelton, seeing he had made a mistake. “Oh, quite impossible, my dear Rector!—why, I am only forty-five, and as I was born when Rudolph left, it really cannot—it cannot”—

She was unable to utter that nauseous statement of fifty years, so the Rector good-humoredly came to her relief.

“Of course not—of course not, my dear lady. Time flies so quickly that we are apt to make mistakes. Your age, of course, is—is—?”

“Forty-five,” murmured the lady bashfully. “Ah, I am indeed growing old. But I will be glad to see Rudolph again, and my niece. You say she is beautiful, Mr. Crispin?”

“Lovely!—as lovely as Eunice here.”

“Good looks run in our family,” said Mrs. Dengelton complacently. “I myself—well, there, I was just like Eunice at her age. Yes, I will be glad to see Helena!”

“And I will be glad to see Melnos!” interposed the Rector. “You can have no idea, my dear Crispin, how interested I was in Maurice’s letter concerning this scheme of reconstituting Hellas. It is a noble dream, which may turn out into a reality.”

“Always provided there is no trouble from the pirates or the volcano, Mr. Carriston.”

“Oh, I trust that the volcano is quiescent; and as for the pirates, I judge, from your description of the defences, that Maurice will be able to keep them at bay until we arrive.”

“Certainly as a last resource they can close up the pass,” said Crispin thoughtfully; “but that would leave them at the mercy of the volcano.”

“They may be all burnt up,” observed Mrs. Dengelton in a sepulchral tone; “and instead of Rudolph I may meet a cinder.”

“I don’t think so, Mrs. Dengelton. Whatever happens, I have full faith in Justinian’s powers of extricating himself from any dilemma; besides, Maurice also is ingenious in ideas.”

“My dear lad!” said the Rector, with emotion. “I am so anxious to see him. This siege seems to have made a new man of him.”

“I don’t think you would recognize him, Rector. He is not listless now, but full of life and spirits. Love, open-air life, and responsibility have wrought wonders.”

“And when do you think we will be in sight of Melnos?”

“To-morrow morning, I think, but Gurt will know.”

Leaving Mrs. Dengelton and Eunice in the cabin, the two gentlemen went on deck to see Gurt, who gave it as his opinion that they certainly would sight Melnos at dawn.

“I hope we will find them alive, Gurt.”

“Don’t you fear, Mr. Crispin, sir. Why, I’d back Mr. Roylands against the Dook of Wellingtin himself for fightin’.”

The Rector was much delighted with Gurt, especially when he saw how the sailor worshipped Maurice; and the tale of the siege of the island, as told by Gurt, with Maurice as the hero, was as brilliant and unreliable as “The Arabian Nights Entertainments.” Never being able to hear enough about his dear lad, Mr. Carriston asked Gurt to once more recite his Iliad, which the sailor was nothing loath to do, and the story lasted until all retired to rest.

The next morning at dawn they were in Cretan waters, and the Rector, Crispin, and Gurt were all on the lookout for the island. Just about sunrise they saw its conical shape dimly on the horizon, and Crispin, who had his glasses up, uttered a cry of dismay.

“Why, there’s smoke!” he said anxiously. “Can the volcano have broken out?”

“I hope not! I trust not!” cried Carriston, turning pale. “Let me look, Crispin. You surely must be mistaken.”

Alas! there was no mistake, for, as they drew nearer, even without the aid of the lengthy tube of the binocle, the crest of the island appeared to be topped by a dark cloud of smoke, and they could hear at intervals the muffled roar of the volcano breathing fire and fury.

“O God! O God! my poor friends!” groaned Crispin, sinking down in deep despair; while the Rector, stunned with the magnitude of the calamity, could say nothing—not even a word of comfort. Both Mrs. Dengelton and Eunice were weeping bitterly at the thought of their terrible loss; but Gurt, in spite of the smoking volcano before his eyes, sturdily refused to believe that Justinian and his company were dead.

“Don’t ’ee believe it, Mr. Crispin! Mr. Maurice knows a thing or two. If any one’s frizzled, I guess it’ll be them pirates; but Mr. Justinian and Miss Helena!—Lor’, sir, Mr. Maurice ’ull see to ’em!”

At this moment the man on the lookout cried out that there was a boat in sight to the eastward, on which cheering intelligence the hearts of all revived, in the hope that it would prove to be their friends escaped from the fatal island. The yacht’s head was turned towards the speck in the distance, and she steamed ahead at full speed, so as to put an end to all suspense, while every one crowded to the taffrail, in order to catch the first glimpse of the occupants.

“Glory! glory!” yelled Gurt, dancing about in a state of great excitement. “There’s Mr. Maurice, sir! and Dick! What did I tell ’ee, Mr. Crispin! Glory! glory!”

“I don’t see Justinian,” said Crispin anxiously; “but see, there are two women. Those will be Helena and Zoe!”

“Sum’at lyin’ in the boat,” cried Gurt, who had climbed up the weather rigging; “maybe it’s Mr. Justinian. Get her ahead, sir, an’ we’ll soon have ’em on board.”

The Eunice slowed down her engines when she approached the caique, and the anxious faces bending over the side saw that it contained Maurice, Dick, Helena, and Zoe, all frightfully haggard-looking objects, and that at the bottom of the boat lay the form of a man covered with the folds of the Union Jack. The two young men, who seemed quite worn out with fatigue, brought the caique alongside the yacht, and, having passed up the women and the insensible Justinian, climbed on board themselves. Then ensued a scene of heartfelt welcome and congratulations, in which Maurice especially was nearly overwhelmed by the embraces of Crispin and the Rector.

“Is Justinian dead?” asked Crispin, when the first excitement had somewhat subsided.

“No; but I am afraid he is dying!”

“My poor lad!” said the Rector pityingly; “you are quite worn out. Crispin, are you still going on to Melnos?”

“What is the use, sir?” said Dick bitterly; “it’s nothing but a heap o’ cinders.”

“Any one still left on the island?”

“Crispin,” said Maurice solemnly, “with the exception of those you see, every soul on the island is dead. I will tell you all soon, but meanwhile I must have something to eat, a bath, and a sleep.”

The women had already carried off Helena and Zoe, to attend to them in their cabin, Justinian was taken down and put to bed, and the yacht’s head was turned back to Syra without delay, in order to obtain a doctor for the dying Demarch.

“Where is Alexandros, Dick?” asked Gurt, as he attended to the wants of the boatswain.

“Fell overboard!” replied Dick sadly; “he got away with us from that cursed island, but, being weak with all his work, tumbled into the water. We tried to save him, but he was so weak that before we could reach him he went down.”

“And that ’ere Count?”

“Oh, a stone from the volcano smashed him up.”

“Served him jolly well right!” said Gurt cruelly. “My eye, Dick, ’ow glad I am t’ see ye, and Zoe too!”

“If it hadn’t been for Mr. Roylands, we’d all have been lost, Gurt!”

“Didn’t I say so!” cried Gurt, bringing his fist down on the table with a mighty thump. “Wot a man he is! Lord Nelsing and the Dook of Wellingtin were nothin’ to him—nothin’!”

In spite of the speed of the yacht, she was unable to reach Syra in time to save the life of the Demarch, for the stone from the volcano had so crushed in his chest, that internal hemorrhage had taken place, and there was no hope of saving his life. He revived, however, shortly after being taken on board, and was conscious to the last, not without some gleams of his former grim humor at the cause of his death.

“That ungrateful Melnos!” he said feebly, as he lay back in his berth, clasping his daughter’s hand; “I gave it bread, and it returns me a stone—a stone to crush me to death. Well, at all events it killed Andros, and of that I am glad.”

“Hush, hush, my dear friend!” said the Rector gently; “you must not talk like that. Forgive your enemies.”

“What! forgive that monster of ingratitude, who brought so many troubles on me, and ruined my schemes.”

“Yes,” said Carriston firmly; “the greater the sinner, the more need has he of forgiveness. If you forgive not your enemies their sins, how can you expect God to forgive you?”

“What about yourself, Rector?”

“I have no enemies,” replied Carriston, with great dignity; “but even if I had, I would forgive them freely.”

“Very well,” said the Demarch, with a cynical smile, which but ill became his pallid face; “I will put you to the test. Call in every one.”

Considerably puzzled at this remark, the Rector did as he was bidden, and in a short space of time, Maurice, Crispin, Mrs. Dengelton, and Eunice were gathered round the bed of the dying man. Helena still sat near him, holding his hot hand; and the Demarch, thus having got his audience together, began to make his last confession.

“You say, Hector, you have no enemies.”

“No, not that I know of!”

“Think a little, Mr. Carriston. What about thirty years back?”

“Thirty years back!” repeated Carriston, growing pale.

“And Captain Malcolm, who ran off with your wife and child!”

“How do you know that?” asked the Rector, with a reproachful glance at Roylands. “Has Maurice”—

“I have said nothing, sir,” cried Maurice, flushing deeply; “how can you suspect me of such a thing?”

“I beg your pardon, my dear lad,” replied the Rector penitently; “I was wrong to do so. Still, how does Mr. Justinian know”—

“For the very simple reason that he was Captain Malcolm,” said the Demarch faintly.

“You!” cried Carriston, recoiling with a shudder,—“you! Are you the man who wrecked my life, and stole my dear ones from me?”

“I am that man!” said Justinian, looking at him with weak defiance. “Come now, where is your forgiveness?”

The Rector was deeply moved, and sat on the edge of the berth, with his hands clasped, and great drops of perspiration rolling down his pale face. A terrible struggle was going on in his mind, for it appeared to him almost impossible to forgive this man, who had wronged him so bitterly. Justinian, observer of human nature to the last, looked at him with a faint sneer on his dying lips.

“I thought you would not practise what you preached.”

“You are wrong! you are wrong!” cried the Rector, springing to his feet. “God forgive me! I should not have hesitated a moment. I do forgive you! I forgive you freely.”

Justinian was so moved to sudden emotion at this noble behavior on the part of the man he had wronged, that for the moment he was deprived of speech.

“I see there are some good men still on earth,” he said at length in a faltering voice. “Mr. Carriston, I thank you for your noble conduct, which has taken me quite by surprise. I acknowledge I have wronged you deeply, and cannot palliate my conduct, but I can and will make reparation.”

“My wife?” groaned the Rector bitterly.

“Is dead; but your son is by your side.”

The Rector turned suddenly round and found himself face to face with Crispin, whose countenance was as pallid as his own. They gazed for a moment at one another, suffocated with emotion, then, casting all restraint to the winds, fell into one another’s arms.

“You will find all the necessary papers to convince you of this truth with my lawyers in London,” said the Demarch, with evident pleasure at this meeting of long parted father and son.

“I am convinced now,” replied Carriston, as he stood with his hand on Crispin’s shoulder. “Yes! this is indeed my son.”

“Still, you had better see the papers,” said Justinian faintly. “There is a letter for you from your wife, which will tell you all you wish to know. Rector, I have been a great sinner, I know, still I don’t think there are many actions I regret so much as robbing you of your wife. However, I have done my best to make amends, and you have forgiven me. But Crispin?”

“I also forgive you freely,” said Crispin, clasping the hand of the dying man; “for by this confession you have not only given me a father, but a wife.”

“Yes, take her!” sobbed Mrs. Dengelton, pushing her daughter towards the poet. “I always liked you, Crispin,—or shall I say Mr. Carriston?”

“I think it must be Crispin Carriston,” said the Rector, drawing Eunice towards him, “for I love the name of Crispin too well to part with it.”

“My dear father!”

“Maurice!” said Justinian, who was getting weaker.

“Yes, uncle?”

“You will find my will at my lawyer’s; it leaves all the money to you and Helena, who is to be your wife.”

“My dear wife!” repeated Maurice, kissing the weeping girl. “As to your money, uncle, I do not require it.”

“You must take it, my son. Helena is my heiress, and alas! now Melnos has vanished in smoke and fire, there is no use for it there. You will return to England, Maurice, and, with all this wealth, do what good you can in the world. Crispin is already rich, so it would be useless to leave him anything.”

“I have Eunice, and that is enough for me.”

“Well, now all is arranged, we must drop the curtain on this comedy of life,” said Justinian, with a flash of his old cynicism. “After all, I have played my part to the best of my ability on this life’s stage, but Fate has been too strong for me.”

“It is the will of God,” observed the Rector solemnly.

Justinian said nothing, as he did not wish to offend the firm faith of the old clergyman, but he could not, for the life of him, think that it was the will of God that forty years of hard work to raise up a new civilization should be blotted out for no reason whatsoever.

“Life’s a problem!” he said, with a faint sigh; “we do our best, and remain poor, we do our worst, and become rich. However, it is all over now, and of all my schemes nothing remains. Dust, ashes, smoke, fire, have they all come to, and I, after seventy-five years of life, die foiled and beaten by Fate.”

“Oh, father, do not talk so! You will not die! you will live!”

“I am afraid not, my child!” replied the dying man faintly; “the parting gift of Melnos has crushed the life out of me. Oh, my island, my beautiful island! that bloomed like a rose on the waters! how your glory has departed! The forge of Hephaistos hath supplanted the garden of Cytherea.”

“Will I not pray for you?” asked the Rector gently.

“To whom? God? Well, a good man’s prayers can do no harm, and, if there is truth in your belief, may do some good. But we are all in the dark, you with your Christianity, I with my paganism. The comedy is ended, drop the curtain.”

“Oh, father, father! do not talk so!” sobbed Helena, burying her face in her hands.

“Hush, my child! I am not afraid. Rector, you can pray for me, but, now all is told and done, leave me with my child. Good-by, my sister; I never knew you, so we are almost strangers—good-by. Kiss me, Eunice, and be a good wife to Crispin, who loves you so dearly. Crispin, I have wronged you, but made reparation. Dick! Gurt! you have been true men, and Maurice will look after your future. Maurice, my dear son, good-by. Be a kind husband to my child, and comfort her in her sorrow. Bury me at sea, for I will have no meaner grave than the mighty ocean. Good-by, one and all—good-by!”

They took leave of him in silence, one by one, and then left the cabin quietly, leaving him alone with Helena and the Rector, who was already on his knees reciting the service for the dying. On deck, the sun was setting in splendor, leaving trails of glory in the heavens, and sadly they remained there, waiting for the end. In about half an hour, the Rector, pale and sad, appeared on the deck.

“It is all over!”

The next day, the yacht arrived at Syra, with her ensign half-mast, as a token of the dead on board. Here the men whom Crispin had recruited for the defence of Melnos were paid off and dismissed. No one on board cared to remain longer in the Archipelago, now so fraught with sad associations, so, after a few hours’ stay, The Eunice steamed out of the harbor on her way to old England once more.

Off the island of Cerigo, to the extreme south of the Peloponnesus, Justinian’s body was committed to the deep, wrapped in no meaner shroud than that ragged Union Jack, shot nearly into tatters, which had floated so proudly over the well-defended stockade. The Rector, in a voice broken by emotion, read the burial service over the body of the dead Demarch, who, whatever his faults might have been, was a great man. The engines were slowed down, the body, wrapped in its glorious pall, shot with a sullen splash into the sea, and then the yacht, with set sails and beating screw, plunged on, through the purple seas, towards England.

Helena was almost broken-hearted with her loss, and shut herself up in her cabin to lament in solitude. This, however, Maurice would not allow, as he was afraid of her becoming ill, and one evening, when all were at dinner, he persuaded her to come up on deck, where the glory of the sunset was burning with splendor in the far west.

“My dearest,” he said tenderly, takingtaking her in his arms, as they stood facing the keen sea breeze, “you must not break your heart like this. Your father would never have survived the loss of Melnos, so he had his wish, and died when all his hopes of a new Hellas were at an end. I must be your comforter now, Helena, and when you are my dear wife, I trust to make you so happy, that you will be able to look back with calmness on this loss, which you now think—and justly—so bitter. Hush, hush, my dear love! We will face the future together, and live down our past sorrows.”

Helena, drying her eyes, put her cold little hand into his, and looked trustfully up into his face, but was too overcome by her feelings to trust herself to speech.

The sun, dying in the west, was flooding the heavens with gold, and just above the intolerable brilliance on the horizon appeared a fantastically shaped cloud, like an isle all broken into bays, capes, peaks, and plains. In the glowing splendor it looked so frail and ethereal, that, even as they gazed, it melted away before their eyes like a fairy vision.

“The Island of Fantasy!” murmured Helena.

“My love! The real Island of Fantasy has vanished; the cloud Island of Fantasy has disappeared; but in our hearts, my Helena, there is a land of fairy loveliness, which will endure forever, and some day, my child, when we leave this world, we will find our beautiful island once again, more glorious than of yore, with your father to welcome us there.”

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