“Would to Heaven I knew in what manner to choose!” she exclaimed.  “Speak to us, young man, as you would counsel mother and sister.”

“Were I so fortunate as to possess relatives so near and dear,” returned the other, with emphasis “nothing should separate us at a time like this.”

“Is there hope for those who remain on the wreck?”

“But little.”

“And in the boat?”

It was near a minute before Wilder made any answer.  He again turned his look around the bright and broad horizon, and he appeared to study the heavens, in the direction of the distant Continent, with infinite care.  No omen that could indicate the probable character of the weather escaped his vigilance while his countenance reflected all the various emotions by which he was governed, as he gazed.

“As I am a man, Madam,” he answered with fervour “and one who is bound not only to counsel but to protect your sex, I distrust the time.  I think the chance of being seen by some passing sail equal to the probability that those who adventure in the pinnace will ever reach the land.”

“Then let us remain,” said Gertrude, the blood, for the first time since her re-appearance on deck, rushing into her colourless cheeks, until they appeared charged to fulness.  “I like not the wretches who would be our companions in that boat.”

“Away, away!” impatiently shouted Nighthead “Each minute of light is a week of life to us all, and every moment of calm, a year.  Away, away, or we leave you!”

Mrs Wyllys answered not, but she stood the image of doubt and painful indecision.  Then the plash of oars was heard in the water, and at the next moment the pinnace was seen gliding over the element, impelled by the strong arms of six powerful rowers.

“Stay!” shrieked the governess, no longer undetermined; “receive my child, though you abandon me!”

A wave of the hand, and an indistinct rumbling in the coarse tones of the mate, were the only answers given to her appeal.  A long, deep, and breathing silence followed among the deserted.  The grim countenances of the seamen in the pinnace soon became confused and indistinct; and then the boat itself began to lessen on the eye, until it seemed no more than a dark and distant speck, rising and falling with the flow and reflux of the blue waters.  During all this time, not even a whispered word was spoken.  Each of the party gazed, until sight grew dim, at the receding object; and it was only when his organs refused to convey the tiny image to his brain, that Wilder himself shook off the impression of the sort of trance into which he had fallen.  His look became bent on his companions, and he pressed his hand upon his forehead, as though his brain were bewildered by the deep responsibility he had assumed in advising them to remain.  But the sickening apprehension quickly passed away, leaving in its place a firmer mind, and a resolution too often tried in scenes of doubtful issue, to be long or easily shaken from its calmness and self-possession.