Three men stepped forward, gave their names, had their widows provided for, and went for their sou'westers, etc. “Stay,” said Lord Ipsden, writing. “To Christina Johnstone, out of respect for her character, one thousand pounds.” “Richard! dinna gang,” cried Christie, “oh, dinna gang, dinna gang, dinna gang; it's no your business.” “Will you lend me your papa's Flushing jacket and sou'wester, my dear? If I was sure to be drowned, I'd go!” Christie ran in for them. In the mean time, discomposed by the wind, and by feelings whose existence neither he, nor I, nor any one suspected, Saunders, after a sore struggle between the frail man and the perfect domestic, blurted out: “My lord, I beg your lordship's pardon, but it blows tempestuous.” “That is why the brig wants us,” was the reply. “My lord, I beg your lordship's pardon,” whimpered Saunders. “But, oh! my lord, don't go; it's all very well for fishermen to be drowned; it is their business, but not yours, my lord.” “Saunders, help me on with this coat.” Christie had brought it. “Yes, my lord,” said Saunders, briskly, his second nature reviving. His lordship, while putting on the coat and hat, undertook to cool Mr. Saunders's aristocratic prejudices. “Should Alexander Liston and I be drowned,” said he, coolly, “when our bones come ashore, you will not know which are the fisherman's and which the viscount's.” So saying, he joined the enterprise. “I shall pray for ye, lad,” said Christie Johnstone, and she retired for that purpose. Saunders, with a heavy heart, to the nearest tavern, to prepare an account of what he called “Heroism in High Life,” large letters, and the usual signs of great astonishment!!!!! for the _Polytechnic Magazine._ The commander of the distressed vessel had been penny-wise. He had declined a pilot off the Isle of May, trusting to fall in with one close to the port of Leith; but a heavy gale and fog had come on; he knew himself in the vicinity of dangerous rocks; and, to make matters worse, his ship, old and sore battered by a long and stormy voyage, was leaky; and unless a pilot came alongside, his fate would be, either to founder, or run upon the rocks, where he must expect to go to pieces in a quarter of an hour. The Newhaven boat lay in comparatively smooth water, on the lee side of the pier. Our adventurers got into her, stepped the mast, set a small sail, and ran out! Sandy Liston held the sheet, passed once round the belaying-pin, and whenever a larger wave than usual came at them, he slacked the sheet, and the boat, losing her way, rose gently, like a cork, upon seas that had seemed about to swallow her. But seen from the shore it was enough to make the most experienced wince; so completely was this wooden shell lost to sight, as she descended from a wave, that each time her reappearance seemed a return from the dead. The weather was misty--the boat was soon lost sight of; the story remains ashore. CHAPTER XIV.