The Euphrasia, according to the expectation announced in the papers, arrived in Plymouth Sound. She had on board a number of prisoners, taken out of two prizes she had lately captured, but which had been so much disabled, that it had been impossible to prevent their going to the bottom. Lady Oswald, who had taken up her residence at Stonehouse for the purpose of being near a great sea-port, and having thus opportunities of sometimes seeing her son, on understanding that the vessel was out in the Sound, but was to sail again immediately, went on board in a shore boat.

Fitz-Ullin had communicated with the Admiral, and had received orders (all the prison-ships being full) to proceed to Leith, and dispose of his prisoners there.

Lady Oswald had been long wishing to visit Scotland for the purpose of making enquiries respecting the property which she thought ought to be her son’s. Dread of the expenses of the journey, and the want of any friend to assist her in an undertaking almost hopeless, had hitherto delayed her project. This was, therefore, just the thing for her; she could now go to Edinburgh free of expense, and in the society of her best friend; that nephew, whose liberality was the sole support both of herself and her son. Her son too would thus be with her. Such an opportunity was not to be lost! Her wishes were of course acceded to by Fitz-Ullin, and a ship’s boat sent ashore for her maid, and such apparel as might be necessary for the voyage. In a few hours the Euphrasia sailed. That night, a little before twelve, she fell in with a kind of armed smuggler, evidently bound for the coast of France. The smuggler refused to come to, or answer signals, and even attempted to make sail; a temerity which obliged the frigate to fire on a little vessel, that should have suffered herself to have been captured without making any resistance.

A few carronades, of course, overwhelmed the smuggler. Her crew immediately took to their boats, which they had lowered down on the first alarm.

As the thunder of the frigate’s guns had subsided, all sound concluded in the last faint reverberation of a cry of distress, from apparently a single female voice, on board the else forsaken vessel. The smuggler was already, to all appearance, on fire at one end. Fitz-Ullin perceiving this, and hearing or fancying the cry, obeyed an involuntary impulse, and leaped into one of the boats manning to pursue the fugitives, and ordered it alongside the burning vessel.

“They have not boats enough for all,” he said, “and have left some wretches behind to perish.” The next moment he was on board, followed but by a couple of sailors, who were bold enough not to be deterred by the volumes of portentous smoke. Assisted by these two men, he searched the upper deck, calling out frequently that there was a boat alongside. No one answered, the smuggler seemed wholly deserted, and the sailors urged the necessity of returning to the boat. Fitz-Ullin bid them do so, but not feeling quite satisfied while they were getting over the side he ran below. To his infinite surprise the door of the cabin was fast. He forced it. All was darkness, though the fire was increasing rapidly at the other end of the ship.

Something that lay on the cabin floor impeded the opening of the door. He stooped, and found it to be the body of one, apparently lifeless, for there was neither breath nor motion. He raised it: from the dress and its lightness, it seemed that of a very young lad. Life, however, might be but suspended, not extinct; he determined therefore to convey the unconscious object of his charitable solicitude, into the boat. The fire was fast approaching, and the smoke, in consequence, becoming suffocating. Fitz-Ullin hurried on deck, carrying the body with him: while cautiously descending to the boat in waiting, he fancied he could feel a scarcely perceptible heaving motion, swell the bosom of his hitherto lifeless burden, as though it were beginning to breathe. Arrived in the boat, he laid the body with great care, partly on the bench beside him, supporting the shoulders and head across his knees; and, intending to chafe the temples, drew off a tight cloth cap, such as cabin boys wear; when, a profusion of long hair, which, but for its fairness, had not been discernible, so dark was the night, fell over his arm. Almost at the same moment, the flames of the burning vessel which had hitherto been darting singly through volleys of thick smoke, burst into an universal blaze! and, in its fierce glare, the mild features and sparkling hair of Julia, lay displayed before the astonished Fitz-Ullin, her head resting on his arm! The news of her having been carried off from Lodore had not reached him, so that his amazement was complete. To say he could not speak, would be but imperfectly to describe him; he could not think! if he had any idea, it was an undefined one, that he either dreamed or was deranged. Julia’s eyes opened. For a few moments, they had no speculation in them: she looked stedfastly in his face. Then her features lit up suddenly, with a wildness of joy, of fear, and of confidence, so strangely blended, that it was almost like insanity. She caught at the hand that supported her with both of hers, clung to it, and, with the most piteous earnestness of entreaty, cried, “What is it? What is it? Oh, what is it all?”

He tried in the gentlest manner, both to calm her excessive agitation, and to make her understand that she had been just taken out of the burning vessel they were now leaving behind them, pointing towards it, as he spoke. She looked at it, first with little visible perception of what it meant; then, covering her eyes a moment, she seemed to think; then, starting, and looking all around, she said, “But where is she? Did she not come out of it too?” Fitz-Ullin explained to her, that the vessel was evidently deserted by every one else, when he found her locked up in the cabin. “She was in the cabin with me!” said Julia, with alarming wildness of manner; then, clasping her hands, she cried vehemently, “Come back for her! Come back for her! oh, come back!”

Fitz-Ullin, for reply, pointed again to the mass of devouring flames which floated on the water, enlightening its dark surface to a considerable distance. Julia involuntarily stretched her arms over the side of the boat, towards the terrific object, as though she could thus assist, and remained fixed in an agony of helpless horror, unconscious of her own attitude, rendered peculiarly conspicuous by the powerful light which necessarily fell on her uplifted countenance, and the palms, and points of the fingers of her outstretched hands; whilst her figure, in the dark boat-cloak in which Fitz-Ullin had wrapped it, was lost to view.

In a few seconds, the condensed body of fire, with an explosion like thunder, parted in ten thousand pieces, each and all, resembling so many flaming torches, flew upwards, and passing each other through the dark atmosphere in circling arches, descended again to the surface of the water, gleamed there half a moment, and became extinct. Pitchy darkness succeeded to the unnatural glare, which had lit up the scene but a moment before, for no vestige of the conflagration remained.

Poor Julia fortunately found, for her horror-stricken and terrified feelings, the only relief of which they were susceptible, in a passion of tears, as profusely shed as those of a child.

She clung to Fitz-Ullin with an alarming convulsiveness of grasp. In his endeavours to sooth and calm her, and the bewilderment of his exaggerated fears, for the possible consequences of the state in which she was, he, from time to time, addressed to her incoherently, all the endearing expressions he had habitually used towards her in her childhood, calling her, in low breathings that no other ear could hear, his own beloved one, his own darling Julia, his own precious one, thus as it were enforcing each entreaty to her, to check the excessive trembling to which she had given way, and which, as it seemed rather to increase than diminish, alarmed him so much, that the arm with which it was necessary to support her, drew her, as each verbal persuasion to still her tremor failed, closer to the bosom in which she herself seemed to seek a shelter; while she, unknowing what she did, pressed his hand with both of hers to her heart, still beating tumultuously from the horrors of the scarcely past scene, and her sobs, for the few seconds it still took to reach the ship, continued audible and convulsive.

A scene of so much emotion was, fortunately, shrouded by the total darkness that prevailed.

Fitz-Ullin carried her himself up the side of the Euphrasia, and to the cabin of Lady Oswald; where, with the assistance of that lady and her maid, he laid her on a sofa, still wrapped in the already mentioned boat-cloak.

The consciousness of light and witnesses calmed in some degree her agitation, or at least checked those demonstrations of it into which she had hitherto been betrayed. She became passive, and lay, for a time, motionless and silent, with her eyes closed. Fitz-Ullin knelt beside her, and watched her countenance with an expression of the most serious solicitude. Lady Oswald, after the first stare of amazement, offered every kind attention in assiduous silence; only from time to time looking the wonder which would have been expressed on any occasion less surprising: so that our heroine was received, to all appearance, with as much composure as though she had been expected. She shewed tokens of life, only by gently waving from her every offered restorative. She wished for stillness; she wished to yield to a consolatory feeling which had already, notwithstanding all the horrors she had so lately both witnessed and escaped, stolen over her heart; for who can, under any circumstances, receive proofs of affection from those they love, and not experience consolation? She felt that she was still dear to Fitz-Ullin; and though, apparently, scarcely alive, became capable of a train of reasoning on the subject. Her friendship, then, was not, as she had feared, valueless in his eyes! The brother-like affection he had always had for her was regaining its ascendancy. As a sister, she should once more become the first object of his tenderness, the source of his happiness, and she would be happy—yet she sighed. Lady Oswald seized the opportunity of entreating her to take some restorative. She was obliged to open her eyes, obliged to raise herself, and in so doing, to withdraw the hand Fitz-Ullin had till then retained. He stood up, assisted Lady Oswald, and spoke to her ladyship, which he had not done before. The spell was broken! Julia spoke too; she thanked Lady Oswald languidly. She had no leisure to be surprised in her turn, at seeing her ladyship where she was. She tried to express to our hero her gratitude for her preservation. He begged she would not speak of his merely accidental service; requesting her to remember, that he could not be aware to whom he was rendering his assistance, whether welcome or unwelcome.

“Unwelcome!” she repeated. He had spoken with unnecessary strength of emphasis. Even Lady Oswald looked surprised.

A short silence followed; when Julia, again raising herself, began to express uneasiness about the fears and anxiety of her friends at Lodore; giving at the same time a hurried and incoherent account of how she had been carried away from thence. Lady Oswald naturally expressed her wonder, as to who could have been the author of so daring an outrage.

Julia, looking down, said, she herself was at a loss whom to suspect. She would have added, that the only person to whom she could have attributed such an outrage, she had not once seen, or heard of, during the whole transaction; and that, therefore, it was that she was at a loss. But a natural feeling of modesty made her hesitate and blush. Fitz-Ullin viewed her with a searching look, which gave her uneasiness, though she could not comprehend its meaning. There was severity in his eye when he first fixed it upon her; yet, there was pity ere he removed it. During her whole recital, the gloom of his brow had deepened every moment; yet he did not express the deep resentment that might have been expected against the perpetrators of such a violence. At one time, after a long reverie, he made a very irrelevant remark: observing, that Mr. St. Aubin had been to blame, in not joining before the Euphrasia sailed; for that his being too late, could not have been accidental.