after long and exhausting effort got it to the raft.  It was eagerly opened.  It was a barrel of magnesia!  On the fifth day an onion was spied.  A sailor swam off and got it.  Although perishing with hunger, he brought it in its integrity and put it into the captain’s hand.  The history of the sea teaches that among starving, shipwrecked men selfishness is rare, and a wonder-compelling magnanimity the rule.  The onion was equally divided into eight parts, and eaten with deep thanksgivings.  On the eighth day a distant ship was sighted.  Attempts were made to hoist an oar, with Captain Rounceville’s coat on it for a signal.  There were many failures, for the men were but skeletons now, and strengthless.  At last success was achieved, but the signal brought no help.  The ship faded out of sight and left despair behind her.  By and by another ship appeared, and passed so near that the castaways, every eye eloquent with gratitude, made ready to welcome the boat that would be sent to save them.  But this ship also drove on, and left these men staring their unutterable surprise and dismay into each other’s ashen faces.  Late in the day, still another ship came up out of the distance, but the men noted with a pang that her course was one which would not bring her nearer.  Their remnant of life was nearly spent; their lips and tongues were swollen, parched, cracked with eight days’ thirst; their bodies starved; and here was their last chance gliding relentlessly from them; they would not be alive when the next sun rose.  For a day or two past the men had lost their voices, but now Captain Rounceville whispered, “Let us pray.”  The Portuguese patted him on the shoulder in sign of deep approval.  All knelt at the base of the oar that was waving the signal-coat aloft, and bowed their heads.  The sea was tossing; the sun rested, a red, rayless disk, on the sea-line in the west.  When the men presently raised their heads they would have roared a hallelujah if they had had a voice—­the ship’s sails lay wrinkled and flapping against her masts—­she was going about!  Here was rescue at last, and in the very last instant of time that was left for it.  No, not rescue yet—­only the imminent prospect of it.  The red disk sank under the sea, and darkness blotted out the ship.  By and by came a pleasant sound-oars moving in a boat’s rowlocks.  Nearer it came, and nearer-within thirty steps, but nothing visible.  Then a deep voice:  “Hol-lo!” The castaways could not answer; their swollen tongues refused voice.  The boat skirted round and round the raft, started away—­the agony of it!—­returned, rested the oars, close at hand, listening, no doubt.  The deep voice again:  “Hol-lo!  Where are ye, shipmates?” Captain Rounceville whispered to his men, saying:  “Whisper your best, boys! now —­all at once!” So they sent out an eightfold whisper in hoarse concert:  “Here!”, There was life in it if it succeeded; death if it failed.  After that supreme moment Captain Rounceville was conscious of nothing until he came to himself on board the saving ship.  Said the Reverend, concluding: