It was upon a delicious evening, a little before sunset, that a yacht worked out of the harbor of Kingstown, all her canvas spread to catch the light air of wind, which scarcely ruffled the glassy surface of the Bay. The craft, with her snow-white sails, her tall and taper spars, her gay bunting from gaff and peak, was all that the scene wanted to render it a perfect picture; and so, to all seeming, thought the many spectators who crowded the pier and the shore, and gazed with admiration at the graceful vessel, as she glided silently above her own image in the water.

Various were the comments and criticisms from those who surveyed her course; some, in wondering conjecture whither she was bound; others, not a whit better informed, boldly affecting some secret knowledge of her destination, and even, by such pretty pretension, assuming airs of superiority.

“She belongs to that rich young fellow, Roland Cashel,” said one of these, “who, by the way, is getting through his fortune tolerably fast. The story goes, that he has spent two hundred thousand already, and is borrowing at immense interest.”

“Was n't he a smuggler, or a privateer's-man, or something of the kind?”

“No; he made all the money in the slave trade.”

“I always heard that he succeeded to a landed estate,” softly insinuated a modest-looking old gentleman.

“Not at all, sir. Such, I am aware, was the common belief; the fact, however, is, that he had invested large sums in land, and was then able to escape the scrutiny many would have instituted regarding the origin of his wealth.”

“Who is it he is always riding with about town—a handsome girl, on a brown horse?”

“On a gray, you mean.”

“No, a brown, with a bang tail.”

“No, no, it's a gray. She's a daughter of Tom Kennyfeck, the attorney.”

“The gentleman is right,” interposed a third. “I 've seen him very often with a lady mounted on a brown thorough-bred.”

“Oh! that's Lady Kilgoff, the handsomest woman in Ireland.”

“She was much better-looking two years ago,” simpered out an ensign, affectedly. “I used to dance with her and her sister at the race balls of Ashby.”

The group immediately fell back, in tacit acknowledgment of the claim of one so aristocratically associated.

“Didn't you know her, Hipsley?” lisped out the ensign to a brother officer, who was admiring a very green baby on the arm of a very blooming nursery-maid. “You knew the Craycrofts, didn't you?”

“Lady Kilgoff's maiden name, sir, was Gardiner,” said the timid old gentleman who spoke before.

The ensign stuck his glass in one eye, and gazed at him for a second or two, with consummate effrontery, and then, in a voice intended for the most cutting drollery, said,—

“Are, you certain it was n't 'Snooks'?”—a rejoinder so infinitely amusing that the bystanders laughed immoderately, and the bashful man retired, overwhelmed in confusion.

“They 're off for a good long cruise,” said one, looking through his pocket telescope at the yacht, which now was steering to the southward, with a fresher breeze.

“I suspect so. They took on board five or six hampers from the hotel, just before they sailed.”

A very warm controversy now arose as to where the yacht was bound for, and who were the parties who went on board of her in the harbor; points which, in the absence of all real knowledge, admitted of a most animated debate. Meanwhile, an old weather-beaten sailor, in a pilot coat, continued to gaze alternately from the sky to the sea, and back again, and at last murmured to himself,—

“They 'll catch it before midnight, if they don't haul their wind, and get into shelter.”

Some drifting clouds, dropping slight rain as they passed, soon after cleared the pier of its loiterers, and night fell, dark and starless, while the wind freshened, and the sea fretted and chafed upon the rocks, and even sent its spray high against the strong lighthouse.

Let us now quit the shore, and bear company with the party on board, who, having dined sumptuously, sat sipping their coffee on deck, while the swift craft skimmed the calm waters of the bay, and unfolded in her course the beautiful panorama of the shore—the bold steep bluff of Brayhead, the curved strand of Killiney, the two “Sugar Loaves” rising from the bosom of dark woods, and, in the distance, the higher chain of the Wicklow mountains, while on the opposite side Howth seemed like a blue island studding the clear surface of the bay. Lord Kilgoff and Mr. Sickleton paid but passing attention to the bright picture around. A learned discussion on naval matters, wherein my Lord took the opportunity of storing his mind with a goodly stock of technicals, to be used at some future occasion, occupied them altogether, leaving her Ladyship and Roland Cashel to the undisturbed enjoyment of the scene and its associations.

They paid the highest tribute the picturesque can exact—they sat in silence watching the changing tints, which from red faded to violet, then gray, and at last grew dark with closing night, while the wind freshening sent the sea rushing swiftly past, and made their light craft heave and pitch heavily.

“We are returning to Kingstown, I trust?” said my Lord to Sickleton, who had left him for a moment, to give orders about shortening sail. “It appears to me like a threatening night.”

“It looks dirty, my Lord,” said Sickleton, dryly, as he walked aft with the pilot, and conferred with him in a low tone.

“Are we making for Kingstown, Mr. Cashel?” said my Lord, in a voice he was not able to divest of anxiety.

“I believe not,” said Cashel, rising, and approaching the compass. “No, we are lying down channel straight as we can go.”

“Ay, and very well for us that we can do it,” growled out the pilot. “If we make the Hook Light before we tack, I shall say we 're lucky.”

“Does he mean there is any danger, Mr. Cashel?” said Lady Kilgoff, but in a voice devoid of tremor.

“None whatever; but I am sadly distressed at having carried you out so far, since I find that in the present state of the tide, and with the wind still driving more to the north, we cannot bear up for Kingstown, but must run along the shore.”

“Think nothing of that,” said she, gayly; “real peril I have no fancy for—a mere inconvenience is of no moment whatever; but”—here she dropped her voice very low—“say something to my Lord—give him some encouragement.”

“It blows fresh, my Lord, and if it were not for the trespass on your comfort, I should almost rejoice at the occasion of showing you my yacht's qualities as a sailing-boat.”

“I should prefer taking your word for them, sir,” said Lord Kilgoff, tartly; “a pleasure-trip is one thing, a night in a small vessel exposed to a heavy gale is another.”

“You 're right, my Lord,” said the pilot, who heard but a part of the observation; “it will be a gale before morning.”

“Luff! luff, there!” shouted Sickleton; and at the same instant a heavy sea thundered against the bow and broke over the fore part of the vessel with a crashing sound.

“I think when we see the lighthouse of Kingstown so near us,” said Lord Kilgoff, “there ought to be no great difficulty in returning.”

“That's not the harbor-light you see yonder—that's the Kish, my Lord,” said the pilot “Keep her up, my man, keep her up, the wind is freshening.”

“Will you indeed forgive me for this disastrous turn of our cruise?” said Cashel, as he fastened his boat-cloak around Lady Kilgoff's throat, after several vain efforts to induce her to go below.

“If you only prevent my Lord from scolding, I shall enjoy it immensely,” said she, in a half whisper.

“I trust, Lady Kilgoff,” said his Lordship, approaching, and steadying himself by the bulwarks, “that this night'a experience will induce you to distrust your own judgment when in opposition to mine. I foresaw the whole of it. It is now blowing a fierce gale—”

“Not a bit of it, my Lord,” interposed the pilot, bluntly; “but it will blow great guns 'fore daybreak, or I 'm mistaken.”

“And where shall we be then?” asked my Lord, querulously.

“Rayther hard to tell,” said the pilot, laughing. “If she be as good a sea-boat as they say, and that we don't carry away any of our spars, we may run for Cove. I take it—”

“For Cove! Gracious mercy! and if she be not as good a vessel as it is said she is, sir, what then, pray?”

The pilot made no reply, but gave orders to set the jib, as she was laboring too much by the head.

The wind increased, and with it the sea, which, dividing at the bow, fell in great cataracts over the vessel, sweeping along the entire deck at every plunge she gave.

“I wish she were a little deeper in the water,” whispered Sickleton to Cashel. “We have n't within fifteen tons of our ballast on board. But she 's a sweet craft, ain't she? Keep her, there—steady, man.”

“We could n't stand round in stays, and bear up for the harbor?” asked Cashel, on whom Lord Kilgoff's face of misery had made a strong impression.

“Impossible! At least the pilot, who knows this coast well, says there is a shore current here runs eight knots.”

“What shall we do with him? He 'll scarce live through the night.”

“Let us get him down below, and, once snug in a berth, he 'll fall asleep, and forget everything.”

Cashel shook his head doubtfully, but determined to try the plan at all hazards.

“Would my Lord be persuaded to lie down, do you think?” said Roland, approaching Lady Kilgoff, who, enveloped in the folds of the heavy boat-cloak, sat calm and collected near the wheel.

“Is there danger?” asked she, hurriedly.

“Not the least; but he seems so ill, and every sea rushes-over him as he stands.”

“You should go down, my dear Lord,” said she, addressing him; “Mr. Cashel is afraid you 'll catch cold here?”

“Ah, is he indeed?” said Lord Kilgoff, in a snappish asperity. “He is too good to bestow a thought upon me.”

“I am only anxious, my Lord, that you should n't suffer from your complaisance so unhappily rewarded.”

“Very kind, exceedingly kind, sir. It is, as you say, most unhappy—a perfect storm, a hurricane. Gracious mercy! what's that?”

This exclamation was caused by a loud smash, like the report of a cannon-shot, and at the same moment the taper topmast fell crashing down, with all its cordage clattering round it. The confusion of the accident, the shouting of voices, the thundering splash of the sea, as, the peak having fallen, the craft had lost the steadying influence of the mainsail, all seemed to threaten immediate danger. Cashel was about to spring forward and assist in cutting away the entangled rigging, when he felt his hand firmly grasped by another, whose taper fingers left no doubt to whom it belonged.

“Don't be alarmed—it is nothing,” whispered he encouragingly; “the mishap is repaired in a second.”

“You 'll not leave me,” said she, in a low tone, which thrilled through every fibre of his heart. He pressed her hand more closely, and tried, but in vain, to catch a glimpse at her face.

Meanwhile the disordered rigging had been repaired, and two men under Sickleton's direction, lifting the drooping and scarce conscious peer from the deck, carried him down below.

If the old instincts of Roland Cashel's sailor life would have rendered the scene interesting to him, watching as he did the way his craft “behaved,” and marking well the fine qualities she possessed as a sea-boat, there was another and far more intense feeling then occupying him as he stood close beside that swathed and muffled figure, who, pale and silent, marked by some gesture, from time to time, her dependence upon him. To Roland, the rattle of the gale, the hissing sea, the strained and creaking cordage, all, not only brought back old memories of his once life, but effectually seemed to dispel the colder mood of mind which admixture with the world of fashion had impressed upon him. He was again, if not in reality, in heart and spirit, the bold buccaneer that walked the Western seas, bursting with life, and eager for adventure. Every plunge that sent the bowsprit down, every squall that bent the taper mast, and laid the vessel half-seas under, inspirited and excited him, not the less that the wild storm called forth every form of encouragement to her, who vibrated between actual terror and a strange sense of delight.

Roland lay at her feet, partly as a barrier against the surging water that, breaking over the bow, swept the entire deck, partly that he might mark those beauteous features, on which the binnacle light occasionally cast its glare.

“It is fine,” murmured she, in a low, soft voice, “and I almost feel as if my own terrors should serve to heighten the sense of ecstasy. I tremble while I delight in it.”

There was an expression of intense excitement in her eyes as she spoke, and her pale features for an instant flushed, as Roland's look met hers.

“How I glory in your words,” cried he, wild with enthusiasm; “I feel like one who suddenly awakes to life out of some long and dreary sleep,—rather this is the sleep, this is itself the vision in which I lie, here, beneath your smile, while we are borne onward through the hissing foam. Oh, would it but last—would that this dark and starless night could be for years, and that we might thus cleave the black waters on and on!”

“And whither to?” asked she, in a whisper scarcely breathed.

“Whither to?” echoed he; “what matters it, while we journey thus? The sun-tipped icebergs of the North Sea, or the rosy mountains of the Spice Island; the balmy shores of Quito, or the bleak coast of Labrador—all are alike to me.”

“A large vessel under the lee!” sang out a voice from the bow, and the cry was repeated still louder, while the pilot shouted, “Show a light at the mast-head; put your helm hard up!” The double command was scarce obeyed, when a huge black mass heaved past them, her great yards almost seeming to grate the cordage. The looming size of the immense object that towered overhead, and the death-like stillness of the yacht's crew till the danger was past, thrilled with a cold terror through her, and instinctively she grasped Roland's hand more closely. The gale had now become furious, and as the light spars were barely able to sustain even the little canvas spread, the sea swept over the vessel as she lay storm-tossed and scarce navigable. The hatches were fastened down, the boats strongly secured, and every precaution of seamanship adopted; and so long as these were in performance, and a certain activity and bustle prevailed, so long did Lady Kilgoff's courage appear to support her; but when all was done, and the men resumed their places in watchful silence, and her mind was left to the contemplation of the raging hurricane alone, she seemed to sink, and, with a faint, low sigh, glided from the seat and fell fainting to the deck.

“You cannot take her below,” said Sickleton, as Cashel, raising her in his arms, was about to carry her to the cabin; “we dare not open the hatches. See, there it comes again!” and, as he spoke, a great wave broke over the vessel's quarter and fell in torrents over the deck, washing, as it receded, several loose spars overboard. By the aid of coats and cloaks innumerable, Cashel at last succeeded in enveloping the fair form beside him, and supporting her head upon his arm as he sat, he saw, to his unspeakable delight, that she soon dropped into a calm sleep.

“This is a disastrous bit of pleasuring,” said Sickleton, as he stood holding on by one of the braces; “who could have supposed such a gale was brewing?”

“Well, well,” replied Cashel, “if it comes no worse—”

“If it does, we can't stand through it, that's all,” said the lieutenant, dryly. “The old pilot says we shall have to make a tack to keep clear of the Hook; but what boat can sail on a wind with a storm-jib and three-reefed topsail?”

“She behaves nobly,” said Roland, as he gazed at the sleeping form, to guard which seemed all his care.

Sickleton mistook the remark, and said, “Ay, that I knew she would; but the sea is tremendous for a small craft, and see how close we have the land under our lee—that black mass yonder.”

“I 'd give all I own in the world that she were safe on shore,” murmured Cashel, not heeding the other's observation; “I cannot forgive myself for having induced her to venture out.”

The lieutenant made no reply, but peered for a few seconds through the skylight of the cabin. “My Lord is lying like a dead man,” said he; “fright and sea-sickness together have nearly done for him, and yet it was only two hours back he thought he 'd make a good figure at the Admiralty. There,” continued he, “day is breaking yonder; we shall soon know our fate; if the gale freshens after sunrise, it is all up with us.”

“Run the craft in shore and I 'll engage to save her,” said Cashel, eagerly. “I'm a strong swimmer in surf; I rescued a Malabar girl once, and in a sea nearly as heavy as this.”

Sickleton smiled incredulously, and turned away.

“It is freshening, by Jove!” said he, as a squall struck the vessel, and laid her almost on her beam ends, while every plank shivered as though she were rending in pieces.

“It's coming stronger, sir,” said the pilot, as he shook the sea from his rough coat and bent his gaze steadfastly towards the east; “I 'd rather not see that red sunrise. Keep her away, man, keep her away!”

“Shall we try it?” muttered Sickleton, to some whispered observations of the other.

“We may as well,” rejoined the pilot; “she 'll never hold steerage way with her present canvas, and if she won't bear the mainsail we must go on shore, and no help for it.”

“Bear a hand there, boys!” cried Sickleton; “shake out the mainsail!”

“You 'll carry away the mast,” cried Cashel, as he heard the order.

“It 's like enough,” growled the pilot, “but yonder's the lee-shore.”

“I could save her—I 'm certain I could save her,” said Cashel.

“He's thinking of the lady,” said the pilot to Sickleton; and the contemptuous tone showed how humbly he estimated him.

“Breakers ahead!—shoal water!” shouted a voice from the bow.

“'Bout ship!” cried Sickleton; “stand by sheets and tacks there—down helm! Are ye ready, men?” And the next moment the obedient vessel spun round, and was cleaving the water on another tack.

“What is it? where am I? is this a dream?” said Lady Kilgoff, as she moved back the hair from her eyes, and looked up at Cashel, who for hours had never moved or stirred.

“To me it has been a delicious dream,” said Cashel, as he met her glance; “and if it were not that you may feel alarmed, it would be still such.”

“What a terrible sea! Where are we?”

“Not far from shore,” said Cashel, encouragingly.

“A devilish deal too near it, though,” muttered the pilot, under his breath.

“Oh, I remember all now. Where is my Lord, Mr. Cashel? Is he ill?”

“He 's gone below—he is sleeping, I believe. It has been a wild night for you; and you 've passed it here on the deck.”

“Here?” said she, looking up and blushing, for she still lay supported against Roland, and one of his hands held the boat-cloak across her.

“Yes, here,” said Cashel, with a voice and manner that made the color mount to her cheeks and as suddenly desert them again.

Meanwhile the lieutenant had gone below, and reappeared with a chart, over which he and the pilot now bent in the deepest consideration.

“Then that must have been the 'Calf' Light we saw to the eastward,” said Sickleton, pointing to the map.

“I 'd say so too,” replied the other, “if such a run did n't seem impossible; but we only tripped our anchor last night before sunset.”

“Ten hours, though!—one can do a deal in ten hours!” said the lieutenant.

“It may be worth as many years sometimes!” said Cashel, in a whisper to her at his side.

“Breakers right ahead!” shouted the man at the bow.

“We 're among the 'Barrels!'” cried, the pilot; “back the topsail! down mainsail!—”

But it was too late! Like a sea-bird rising to its flight, the light craft bounded forward, till her shining copper glanced above the waves, and then, with a spring, dashed onward, amid the foam and spray that rose like a mist around her. The frothy shower flew over the deck, while the hissing water spurted up on every side with a crashing, splintering sound. The keel came down, and while a loud cry broke forth, “She 's struck!” the mast snapped suddenly across, and fell with its draped rigging into the sea.

“Stand by! cut away the boats!” shouted Sickleton; and seizing a hatchet, gave the example himself, while Cashel, lifting the now lifeless form of Lady Kilgoff, placed her in the boat. The confusion and terror became now extreme. The breaking sea had already forced its way through the vessel's bottom, and issued in a clear jet of blue water from the hatchways. The first boat launched was rapidly crowded, and scarcely had it touched the water than it was swamped. For an instant the struggling figures were seen battling with the waves, but in a moment after they were gone!

Mainly through Sickleton and Cashel's exertions, the second boat was got ready, and just about to be launched, when Roland turned to seek Lord Kilgoff, whom, up to that moment, he had entirely forgotten. Scarcely had he reached the binnacle, when the old man, pale and almost dead with terror, stood before him. “Is she safe, sir?—is my Lady safe?” cried he, tremulously.

“Quite so; come along, there 's not a moment to lose.”

“Oh, Mr. Cashel, do not leave me!” cried Lady Kilgoff, as the boat was lifted from its place, and swung by the halyards from side to side.

“You cannot surely resist that appeal, sir,” said Lord Kilgoff, his withered and worn features flushed with a pang of sudden anger.

“I must see to your safety, my Lord, or none else is likely to do it,” said Cashel, sternly; and as he spoke he lifted the old man and placed him in the boat. “Stay where you are, Sickleton,” cried he to the lieutenant; “I 'll cut her adrift. So there! my boys, all together—larboard now.” And as the vessel heaved over to the surge, the boat was launched. A shrill cry of terror was heard above the raging storm; for Cashel, in his eagerness to secure the others' safety, had perilled his own, and now the boiling surf rushed between the yacht and the boat, defying every effort to approach.

“Never fear for me,” said Roland, boldly; “the distance is short, and I 've swum in many a heavier surf.” And he swung himself, as he spoke, by a loose stay into the sea. Nobly breasting the mad waves, he was seen at intervals, now borne on the white-crested billows, now deep down in the dark trough of waters. His Indian teaching had taught him, too, to dive at times through the coming surf, and thus escape its force, and so did he emerge from the great mass of waters that seemed almost to have buried him. Bending to the oars, the boat's crew pulled manfully through the tide, and at last gaining a little bay, floated into calm water, just as Cashel had got a footing on a reef of rock, a short distance from land.

“Safe!” cried he, as he drew his wearied limbs up the little craggy eminence, from which he could see the yacht still storm-lashed and heaving, and follow with his eyes the boat, as with bounding speed she made for shore.

No sooner had Sickleton safely landed his freight than he put out again to rescue those in the yacht, while Cashel, bruised, bleeding, and torn, made his way slowly to the little hut where Lord and Lady Kilgoff had taken shelter.

His entrance was little noticed. The cabin was full of country people and fishermen,—some earnestly proffering advice and counsel, others as eagerly questioning all about the recent calamity. In a great straw chair, beside the fire, sat Lord Kilgoff, his head resting on a country-woman's shoulder, while another bathed his temples to restore animation.

“Where is she?” said Cashel, passionately; and the tone and look of the speaker turned attention towards him.

“'T is her husband,” whispered the woman of the house, courtesying respectfully to the youth, who, in all the torn disorder of his dress, looked the gentleman; and with that she drew him into an inner room, where upon a low settle lay the pale and scarce breathing form of Lady Kilgoff.

“Don't be afeared, yer honer, she 'll be betther in a minute or two. She has more courage than her father there,” and she pointed to the outside room where Lord Kilgoff sat. “Indeed, the first word she spoke was about yerself.”

Cashel made a gesture to be silent, and sat down beside the settle, his gaze fixed on the features, which, in their calm loveliness, had never seemed more beautiful.

The stillness that now reigned in the little cabin, only broken by the low whisperings without, the calm tranquillity so suddenly succeeding to the terrible convulsion, the crowd of sensations pressing on the brain, and, above all, the immense fatigue he had gone through, brought on such a sense of stupor that Cashel fell heavily on the floor, and with his head leaning against the settle, fell into a sound sleep.

Before evening had closed in most of the party had recovered from their fatigues, and sat grouped in various attitudes round the blazing fire of the cabin. In a deep, old-fashioned straw chair, reclined, rather than sat, Lady Kilgoff; a slightly feverish flush lent a brilliancy to her otherwise pale features, deepening the expression of her full soft eyes, and giving a more animated character to the placid beauty of her face. Her hair, in all the loose freedom of its uncared for state, fell in great voluptuous masses along her neck and shoulders, while part of a finely-turned arm peeped out beneath the folds of the wide scarlet cloak which the fisherman's wife had lent her in lieu of her own costly “Cashmere.”

Next to her sat Roland; and although dressed in the rough jacket of a sailor, his throat encircled by a rude cravat of colored worsted, he seemed in the very costume to have regained some of his long-lost joyousness, and, notwithstanding the sad event of the night, to be in a very ecstasy of high spirits. Sickleton, too, seemed like one who regarded the whole adventure as a circumstance too common-place for much thought, and busied himself writing letters to various persons at Cashel's dictation, sorely puzzled from time to time to follow out the thread of an intention, which Roland's devotion to the lady at his side more than once interrupted.

The most disconsolate and woe-begone of all was the poor peer, who, propped up by cushions, sat with unmeaning gaze steadily riveted on the fire. There was something so horribly absurd, too, in the costume in which he was clad, that converted all pity into a sense of ridicule. A great wide pea-jacket encircled his shrunken, wasted figure to the knees, where the thin attenuated legs appeared, clad in blue worsted stockings, whose wide folds fell in a hundred wrinkles around them; a woollen cap of red and orange stripes covered his head, giving a most grotesque expression to the small and fine-cut features of his face. If Lady Kilgoff and Cashel had not been too much interested on other topics, they could not have failed to discover, in the occasional stealthy glances that Sickleton cast on the old lord, that the costume had been a thing of his own devising, and that the rakish air of the nightcap, set sideways on the head, was owing to the sailor's inveterate fondness for a joke, no matter how ill-timed the moment or ill-suited the subject of it.

Behind them, and in a wider circle, sat the fisherman and his family, the occasional flash of the fire lighting up the gloom where they sat, and showing, as in a Rembrandt, the strong and vigorous lines of features where health and hardship were united—the whole forming in the light and shadow a perfect subject for a painter.

From the first moment of the mishap, Lord Kilgoff had sunk into a state of almost child-like imbecility, neither remembering where he was, nor taking interest in anything, an occasional fractious or impatient remark at some parsing inconvenience being all the evidence he gave of thought. It devolved, therefore, upon Cashel to make every arrangement necessary,—an assumption on his part which his natural respect and delicacy made no small difficulty. As for Lady Kilgoff, she appeared implicitly to yield to his judgment on every point; and when Roland suggested that, instead of returning to Dublin and all its inevitable rumors, they should at once proceed to Tubbermore, she assented at once, and most willingly.

It was with this object, then, that Sickleton sat, pen in hand, making notes of Cashel's directions, and from time to time writing at his dictation to various tradesmen whose services he stood in need of. It would certainly have called for a clearer head, and a calmer than Roland's, to have conducted the conversation with the lady and the command to the gentleman, who sat at either side of him. Many a sad blunder did he make, and more than once did the reply intended for her Ladyship find its way into the epistle of the lieutenant, nor did the mistake appear till a reading of the document announced it. At these, a burst of laughter was sure to break forth, and then my Lord would look up, and, passing his fingers across his temples, seem trying to recall his lost and wandering faculties—efforts that the changeful play of his features showed to be alternately failing and succeeding, as reason, tide-like, ebbed and flowed within his brain.

It was as Sickleton wrote down at Cashel's direction the order for a considerable sum of money to be distributed among the crew of the yacht, that Lord Kilgoff, catching as it were in a momentary lucidness the meaning of the words, said aloud, “This is not munificence, sir. I tell you this is the wasteful extravagance of the buccaneer, not the generosity of a true gentleman.”

The other suddenly started at the words, and while Lady Kilgoff's deep flush of passion and Cashel's look of astonishment exhibited their feelings, Sickleton's hearty laugh showed the racy enjoyment deficient delicacy can always reap from an awkward dilemma.

“But, my Lord, you mistake Mr. Cashel,” said Lady Kilgoff, eagerly bending forward as she spoke. “His noble gift is to compensate these brave fellows for a loss, as well as reward them for an act of devotion.—How silly in me to reason with him! see, Mr. Cashel, his mind is quite shaken by this calamity.”

“Your defence compensates a hundred such reproofs,” said Cashel, with warmth. “Well, Mr. Sickleton,” said he, anxious to quit a painful topic, “what of this schooner yacht you spoke of awhile ago?”

“The handsomest craft that ever swam,” said the lieutenant, delighted to discuss a favorite theme. “Lord Wellingham has married, and they say won't keep her any longer. You 'll get her for ten thousand, and the story is she cost about fourteen.”

“But perhaps Mr. Cashel may soon follow her noble owner's example,” said Lady Kilgoff, smiling, and with a subdued look towards Roland.

“Don't give him bad counsel, my Lady.”

“It really does seem to me a kind of inveteracy thus to talk of buying a new yacht within a few hours after losing one.”

“Like a widower looking out for a new wife, I suppose,” said the lieutenant, laughing.

“No, sir, I beg to correct you,” broke in my Lord, with a snappishness that made the bearers start; “her Ladyship is not yet a widow, although her levity might seem to imply it.”

“My Lord, I must protest against this sarcastic humor,” said she, with a mild dignity. “Our terrible catastrophe may have disturbed your right judgment, but I pray select another theme for misconstruction. Mr. Cashel, I will wish you a good-night. In the difficulty in which I am placed, I can only say that my perfect confidence in your counsel satisfies me it will be such as you ought to give and I to follow.”

“Yes, sir, of course; when the lady says, 'Follow,' I hope you know a gentleman's devoir better than to disobey.” These words were uttered by the old man with a sneering impertinence that augured no absence of mind; but ere the door closed upon Lady Kilgoff his face had again put on its former dull and vacant stare, and it was clear that the momentary intelligence was past and over.

“Now, Sickleton,” said Cashel, as if at length able to give his mind to the details before him, “you will haste to Dublin; send us the carriages with all the speed you can muster; pack off her Ladyship's maid and the wardrobe, and don't forget that dressing-case at Seward's. I should like to have her crest upon it, but there's no time for that—besides, we should only have more scandal in Dublin when it got abroad. Then for Kennyfeck: tell him I have no money, and stand much in need of it, for, as my Lord says, mine are buccaneer's habits; and lastly, run over to Cowes and secure the yacht—we must have her. I'm much mistaken, or our friends here will take a cruise with us among the Greek Islands one of these days.”

“Treacherous navigation, too!” said Sickleton, with a dryness that seemed to imply more than the mere words.

“What if it be, man! they say there's nothing much worse anywhere than the line of coast here beside us.”

“Well, and have n't we suffered enough to make us credit the report?” He paused, and then dropping his voice to a low and cautious whisper, added, “Not but that I shall call you lucky if all the danger has ended with the loss of the vessel.”

“How? What do you mean?” asked Cashel, in atone of great eagerness.

“Cannot you guess?” said the other, with an imperturbable coolness.

“No, on my honor, I have n't a thought whither your words point.”

“Then, faith, the peril is fifty times greater and nearer than I suspected,” cried he, warmly. “When a man cracks on all that he can carry, and more than is safe, you at least give him credit for knowing the channel, and understanding its bearings; but when he tells you that he neither knows the course nor the soundings, why you set him down as mad.”

“I shall not be very far removed from that condition if you'll not condescend to explain yourself more freely,” said Cashel, with some irritation of manner. “Where is this danger? and what is it?”

Sickleton looked at him for a second or two, then at the old peer; and, at last, with a scarcely perceptible movement of his head, motioned towards the door by which Lady Kilgoff had just passed out.

“You surely cannot mean—you do not suppose—”

“No matter what I suppose; all I say is, there are worse breakers ahead of you just now than the 'Lucciola' had last night; haul your wind, and draw off while you have time. Besides, look yonder,”—and he pointed with a jerk of his thumb to Lord Kilgoff, who still sat with stolid gaze fixed upon the red embers of the fire,—“that would be a victory with but little honor!”

Cashel started to his feet, and, passing his hand over his forehead, seemed, as it were, trying to disabuse his mind of some painful illusion. His features, flushed and animated an instant before, had grown almost livid in pallor; and he stood, with one hand leaning on the chair from which he had risen, like one recovering from a fainting fit At last, and with a voice husky and hoarse from emotion, he said, “Sickleton, if I had thought this—if, I say, I even believed what you hint at possible—”

“Pooh! pooh!” broke in the other; “why anchor in three fathoms when you 've deep water beside you? You 'll not hug a lee-shore with a fresh breeze on your quarter; and all I ask is, that you 'd not risk the loss of that noble craft merely that you may spoil the wreck.”

Cashel grasped the rough seaman's hand in both his own, and shook it with warmth.

“I can only say this,” said the bluff lieutenant, rising, “if such be the object of your cruises, you must seek another shipmate than Bob Sickleton; and so good-night.”

“Are you going?” said Cashel, with a sorrowful voice. “I wish you were not about to leave thus.”

“I have given you your bearings; that ought to be enough for you. Good-night, once more.” And with this the honest-hearted lieutenant threw his boat-cloak around him, and sallied forth to the door, before which a chaise was in waiting to convey him to Dublin.

As for Roland, his agitated and excited mind banished all desire for sleep, and he wandered out upon the beach, where, resolving many a good intention for the future, he walked to and fro till day was breaking.