It was late in the day before Perdita awoke, and a longer time elapsed before recovering from the torpor occasioned by the laudanum, she perceived her change of situation.  She started wildly from her couch, and flew to the cabin window.  The blue and troubled sea sped past the vessel, and was spread shoreless around:  the sky was covered by a rack, which in its swift motion shewed how speedily she was borne away.  The creaking of the masts, the clang of the wheels, the tramp above, all persuaded her that she was already far from the shores of Greece.—­“Where are we?” she cried, “where are we going?”—­

The attendant whom I had stationed to watch her, replied, “to England.”—­

“And my brother?”—­

“Is on deck, Madam.”

“Unkind! unkind!” exclaimed the poor victim, as with a deep sigh she looked on the waste of waters.  Then without further remark, she threw herself on her couch, and closing her eyes remained motionless; so that but for the deep sighs that burst from her, it would have seemed that she slept.

As soon as I heard that she had spoken, I sent Clara to her, that the sight of the lovely innocent might inspire gentle and affectionate thoughts.  But neither the presence of her child, nor a subsequent visit from me, could rouse my sister.  She looked on Clara with a countenance of woful meaning, but she did not speak.  When I appeared, she turned away, and in reply to my enquiries, only said, “You know not what you have done!”—­I trusted that this sullenness betokened merely the struggle between disappointment and natural affection, and that in a few days she would be reconciled to her fate.

When night came on, she begged that Clara might sleep in a separate cabin.  Her servant, however, remained with her.  About midnight she spoke to the latter, saying that she had had a bad dream, and bade her go to her daughter, and bring word whether she rested quietly.  The woman obeyed.

The breeze, that had flagged since sunset, now rose again.  I was on deck, enjoying our swift progress.  The quiet was disturbed only by the rush of waters as they divided before the steady keel, the murmur of the moveless and full sails, the wind whistling in the shrouds, and the regular motion of the engine.  The sea was gently agitated, now shewing a white crest, and now resuming an uniform hue; the clouds had disappeared; and dark ether clipt the broad ocean, in which the constellations vainly sought their accustomed mirror.  Our rate could not have been less than eight knots.

Suddenly I heard a splash in the sea.  The sailors on watch rushed to the side of the vessel, with the cry—­some one gone overboard.  “It is not from deck,” said the man at the helm, “something has been thrown from the aft cabin.”  A call for the boat to be lowered was echoed from the deck.  I rushed into my sister’s cabin; it was empty.