Beatrice looked at him earnestly. Their eyes met. In hers there was a glance of anxious inquiry, as though her soul were putting forth a question by that look which was stronger than words. In his there was a glance of anxious expectancy, as though his soul were speaking unto hers, saying: “Tell all; let me know if you suspect that of which I am afraid to think.” “We have met with ships at sea,” she resumed, in low, deliberate tones. “Yes.” “Sometimes we have caught up with them, we have exchanged signals, we have sailed in sight of one another for hours or for days, holding intercourse all the while. At last a new morning has come, and we looked out over the sea, and the other ship has gone from sight. We have left it forever. Perhaps we have drifted away, perhaps a storm has parted us, the end is the same--separation for evermore.” She spoke mournfully, looking away, her voice insensibly took up a cadence, and the words seemed to fall of themselves into rhythmic pause. “I understand you,” said Brandon, with a more profound mournfulness in his voice. “You speak like a Sibyl. I pray Heaven that your words may not be a prophecy.” Beatrice still looked at him, and in her eyes he read pity beyond words; and sorrow also as deep as that pity. “Do you read my thoughts as I read yours?” asked Brandon, abruptly. “Yes,” she answered, mournfully. He turned his face away. “Did Langhetti teach you this also?” he asked, at last. “He taught me many things,” was the answer. Day succeeded to day, and week to week. Still the ship went on holding steadily to her course northward, and every day drawing nearer and nearer her goal. Storms came--some moderate, some severe; but the ship escaped them all with no casualties, and with but little delay. At last they passed the equator, and seemed to have entered the last stage of their journey. CHAPTER XII. THE STRUGGLE FOR LIFE. At length the ship came within the latitude of the Guinea coast. For some days there had been alternate winds and calms, and the weather was so fitful and so fickle that no one could tell in one hour what would happen in the next. All this was at last terminated by a dead, dense, oppressive calm like those of the Indian Ocean, in which exertion was almost impossible and breathing difficult. The sky, however, instead of being clear and bright, as in former calms, was now overspread with menacing clouds; the sea looked black, and spread out before them on every side like an illimitable surface of polished ebony. There was something appalling in the depth and intensity of this calm with such accompaniments. All felt this influence. Although there was every temptation to inaction and sleep yet no one yielded to it. The men looked suspiciously and expectantly at every quarter of the heavens. The Captain said nothing, but cautiously had all his preparations made for a storm. Every half hour he anxiously consulted the barometer, and then cast uneasy glances at the sea and sky.