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The expression on Florence’s face alarmed the captain, who was himself very hot and flurried, and showed scarcely less agitation than she did.

“Shall I go on, Beauty?” said the captain.

“Yes, yes, pray!” cried Florence.

The captain made a gulp as if to get down something that was stuck in his throat, and nervously proceeded:

“That there unfortunate ship met with such foul weather, out at sea, as don’t blow once in twenty year, my darling. There was hurricanes ashore as tore up forests and blowed down towns, and there was gales at sea, even in them latitudes, as not the stoutest wessel ever launched could live in. Day arter day, that there unfort’nate ship behaved noble, I’m told, and did her duty brave, my Pretty, but at one blow a’most her bulwarks was stove in, her masts and rudder carried away, her best men swept overboard, and she left in the mercy of the storm as had no mercy, but blowed harder and harder yet, while the waves dashed over her, and beat her in, and every time they come a thundering at her, broke her like a shell. Every black spot in every mountain of water that rolled away was a bit of the ship’s life, or a living man, and so she went to pieces, Beauty, and no grass will never grow upon the graves of them as manned that ship.”

“They were not all lost!” cried Florence. “Some were saved! Was one?”

“Aboard o’ that there unfortunate wessel,” said the captain, rising from his chair, and clenching his hand with prodigious energy and exultation, “was a lad, a gallant lad–as I’ve heard tell–that had loved when he was a boy to read and talk about brave actions in shipwrecks–I’ve heerd him!–I’ve heerd him!–and he remembered of ’em in his hour of need; for when the stoutest hearts and oldest hands was hove down, he was firm and cheery. It wa’n’t the want of objects to like and love ashore that gave him courage; it was his nat’ral mind. I’ve seen it in his face when he was no more than a child–ah, many a time!–and when I thought it nothing but his good looks, bless him!”

“And was he saved?” cried Florence. “Was he saved?”

“That brave lad,” said the captain,–“look at me, pretty! Don’t look round–“

Florence had hardly power to repeat, “Why not?”

“Because there’s nothing there, my deary,” said the captain. “Don’t be took aback, pretty creetur! Don’t for the sake of Wal’r as was dear to all on us! That there lad,” said the captain, “arter working with the best, and standing by the fainthearted, and never making no complaint nor sign of fear, and keeping up a spirit in all hands that made ’em honor him as if he’d been a admiral–that lad, alone with the second mate and one seaman, was left, of all the beatin’ hearts that went aboard that ship, the only living creeturs–lashed to a fragment of the wreck, and drifting on the stormy sea.”

“Were they saved?” cried Florence.

“Days and nights they drifted on them endless waters,” said the captain, “until at last–no! don’t look that way, Pretty!–a sail bore down upon ’em, and they was, by the Lord’s mercy, took aboard, two living, and one dead.”

“Which of them was dead?” cried Florence.

“Not the lad I speak on,” said the captain.

“Thank God! Oh, thank God!”

“Amen!” returned the captain hurriedly. “Don’t be took aback! A minute more, my Lady Lass! with a good heart!–Aboard that ship, they went a long voyage, right away across the chart (for there wa’n’t no touching nowhere), and on that voyage the seaman as was picked up with him died. But he was spared, and–.”

The captain, without knowing what he did, had cut a slice of bread from the loaf, and put it on his hook (which was his usual toasting fork), on which he now held it to the fire; looking behind Florence with great emotions in his face, and suffering the bread to blaze and burn like fuel.