“It’s a gun, certainly, and must be fired out at sea—a signal of distress. Recollect, the wind is favorable for bringing the sound this way. Listen, there it is again!” There could be no mistaking it. As if to gratify the anxiety of the now excited group, the tempest had lulled almost entirely for the time, and the deep boom of a cannon, fired at intervals of about a minute, was heard distinctly. A sudden solemnity fell upon the listeners. The fiddler mechanically began replacing his instrument in its green bag; the landlord looked ruefully towards his assistant, as much as to say that he might close the bar, for there would be no more drinking that night; while the sailors, and indeed most of the company, crowded to the door, where they stood eagerly waiting for the reports, in spite of the rain that dripped from the roof just overhead, or drove occasionally into their faces when a gust of wind swept by. “We must do something for them,” said Major Gordon, breaking the silence. “It’s impossible to do anything to-night,” answered Mullen. “But I’ll go off with you at dawn, as far as the beach, anyhow. I’ve a good boat, and we can easily get volunteers. You’ll go, Newell, and you, Muncy,” he said, turning to various young men, all acquaintances, whom he saw standing around, “and you, and you, and you.” “We’ll follow the Major, and yon,” said the one he had called Newell, “wherever you may lead.” “Thanks, my lads,” answered the officer, “and now to rest, so that we may be all the fresher in the morning, when God grant that we may not be too late.” The suggestion was followed. In a few minutes, those who had been so fortunate as to obtain beds, had retired to the loft above; while the remainder stretched themselves indiscriminately on the floor, and were soon buried in profound repose. By this time the tempest had increased again, so that the signal guns could not be distinguished. But Major Gordon, who had never heard similar sounds before, was long haunted in his sleep by the report of cannon booming solemnly across the night. CHAPTER VI. MAJOR GORDON The morning comes, but brings no sun. The sky with clouds is overrun. —T. Buchanan Read. A piteous fearful sight, A noble vessel laboring with the storm. —Maturin. It is time that we should say something of the young officer, who, as the reader has suspected, is destined to play no inconsiderable part in our story.