The night closed in as before; the stars shone bright but there was no moon, Philip had risen at midnight to relieve Krantz from the steerage of the raft.  Usually the men had lain about in every part of the raft, but this night the majority of them remained forward.  Philip was communing with his own bitter thoughts, when he heard a scuffle forward, and the voice of Krantz crying out to him for help.  He quitted the helm, and seizing his cutlass ran forward, where he found Krantz down, and the men securing him.  He fought his way to him, but was himself seized and disarmed.  “Cut away—­cut away,” was called out by those who held him; and, in a few seconds, Philip had the misery to behold the after part of the raft, with Amine upon it, drifted apart from the one on which he stood.  “For mercy’s sake! my wife—­my Amine—­for Heaven’s sake save her!” cried Philip, struggling in vain to disengage himself.  Amine also, who had run to the side of the raft, held out her arms—­it was in vain—­they were separated more than a cable’s length.  Philip made one more desperate struggle, and then fell down deprived of sense and motion.

Chapter XXIV

It was not until the day had dawned that Philip opened his eyes, and discovered Krantz kneeling at his side; at first his thoughts were scattered and confused; he felt that some dreadful calamity had happened to him, but he could not recall to mind what it was.  At last it rushed upon him, and he buried his face in his hands.

“Take comfort,” said Krantz; “we shall probably gain the shore to-day, and we will go in search of her as soon as we can.”

“This, then, is the separation and the cruel death to her which that wretch Schriften prophesied to us,” thought Philip; “cruel indeed to waste away to a skeleton, under a burning sun, without one drop of water left to cool her parched tongue; at the mercy of the winds and waves; drifting about—­alone—­all alone—­separated from her husband, in whose arms she would have died without regret; maddened with suspense and with the thoughts of what I may be suffering, or what may have been my fate.  Pilot, you are right; there can be no more cruel death to a fond and doting wife.  Oh! my head reels.  What has Philip Vanderdecken to live for now?”

Krantz offered such consolation as his friendship could suggest, but in vain.  He then talked of revenge, and Philip raised his head.  After a few minutes’ thought, he rose up.  “Yes,” replied he, “revenge!—­revenge upon those dastards and traitors!  Tell me, Krantz, how many can we trust?”

“Half of the men, I should think, at least.  It was a surprise.”  A spar had been fitted as a rudder, and the raft had now gained nearer the shore than it ever had done before.  The men were in high spirits at the prospect, and every man was sitting on his own store of dollars, which, in their eyes, increased in value, in proportion as did their prospect of escape.