"I know it," answered Seymour, at last. "I suppose there is no use beating back around the shoal, Bentley?" he said tentatively. "No, sir, no use; and besides in this wind we could not do it; and, sir, you know nothing will live in such a sea. Look at the Englishman now, sir." The captain turned at last. The frigate was a hopeless wreck. All three of her masts had gone by the board; she had run full on the rocky ledge of the shoal at the mouth of the channel. The wind had risen until it blew a heavy gale; no boat, no human being, could live in such a sea. The waters rushed over her at every sweep, and she was fast breaking up before them. Night had fallen, and darkness at last enshrouded her as she faded out of view. A drop of snow fell lightly upon the cold cheek of the young sailor, and the men gazed into the night in silence, appalled by the awful catastrophe. Bentley, understanding it all, laid his hand lightly on Seymour's arm, saying softly,-- "Better clear the wreck and get the mizzen topsail and the fore and main sail in, sir, and reef the fore and main topsails; the spars are buckling fearfully. She can't stand much more." "Oh, Bentley," he said with a sob, and then, mastering himself, he gave the necessary orders to clear away the wreck and take in the other sails, and close reef the topsails, in order to put the ship in proper trim for the rising storm; after which, the wind now permitting, the ship was headed for Philadelphia. As Seymour turned to go below, he came face to face with Talbot. The two men stood gazing at each other in silence. "We still have an account to settle, Mr. Talbot," he said sternly. "My God," said Talbot, hesitatingly, "was n't it awful? How small, Seymour, are our quarrels in the face of that!" pointing out into the darkness,--"such a tremendous catastrophe as that is." Seymour looked at him curiously; the man had not yet fathomed the depth of the catastrophe to him, evidently. "As for our quarrel," he continued in a manly, generous way, "I--perhaps I was wrong, Mr. Seymour. I know I was, but I have loved her all my life. I am sorry I spoke so, and I beg your pardon; but--won't you tell me about the note now?" A great pity for the young man filled Seymour's heart in spite of his own sorrow. "I loved her too," he said quietly. "The note was sent to me from Gwynn's Island, where they were confined. I had offered myself to her the night of the raid,--just before it, in fact,--and she accepted me. The note was mine. Where is it?" "Oh!" said Talbot, softly, lifting his hand to his throat, "and I loved her too, and she is yours. Forgive me, Seymour, you won her honorably. I was too confident,--a fool. The note is gone into the sea. We cannot quarrel about it now." "There can be no quarrel between us now, Talbot. She is mine no more than she is yours. She--she--" He paused, choking. "She--"