"Aye, aye," added Dr. Heriot; "some morning, perhaps the poor fellow little thought his soul would be required of him ere night; and little thinks some poor wife or sweetheart, mother or sister, that one they love is floating thus, so far from land." "How long has he been in the water?" asked Hawkshaw, in a low tone. "About four days, I think," replied Dr. Heriot, who, as he spoke, smartly lashed the bag containing the four six-pound shots to the feet of the corpse, at the same time desiring Hawkshaw with a clasp-knife to cut away the lanyard of the life-buoy, which was grasped by the hands of the deceased. Hawkshaw reluctantly and shudderingly obeyed. Then, as the poor corpse began to sink feet foremost, slowly, solemnly, and gradually into the pale green and transparent sea, the head rose, nodding, but almost erect, from the water. The face became visible in the glare of the setting sun, now almost level with the sea, and an exclamation of horror burst from Hawkshaw, as he fell backward over the middle thwarts of the boat, for in the ghastly lineaments of the sinking dead man, as the sea closed slowly over them, he seemed to recognise--oh, was it conscience, fancy, or reality?--the dreaded features of MORLEY ASHTON! CHAPTER XXIV. UP ANCHOR. In all the fleet of merchantmen which crowded the busy harbour of Rio de Janeiro, Morley could not discover a single vessel bound for the Isle of France. There were hundreds freighted for Holland, the Mediterranean, the Baltic, the United States, Britain, and elsewhere, but not one for the island of his pilgrimage. So kind Tom Bartelot's generosity was proffered in vain, and for a time poor Morley was in despair! To return to England merely to find that Ethel and her family had sailed at the appointed time, months ago, for the Isle of France, was a line of action to which he, by nature restless, impetuous, and impatient, could by no means reconcile himself to adopt. He wrote to her a passionate and loving letter by the British mail, addressed to Laurel Lodge, to be forwarded after her, if she had left. In this letter he detailed the story of his disappearance, revealed the true character of Hawkshaw, and concluded by declaring that, whatever happened, death alone would prevent him from finding his way to her before the year was out. And this letter, which he knew might be months in reaching her, he dropped into the post-office in the Rua Dirieta, with a sigh of hope, and turned away sadly, again to seek the docks where the _Princess_ lay, feeling oppressively in his heart that his youth was almost gone--his once bright, hopeful youth gone--and without avail. A bitter, bitter conviction! His letter, penned at such a distance from her, in a humble little posada, frequented by seamen, in the Campo de Santa Anna, though duly forwarded by the mail from Rio to Liverpool (for reasons which the reader will learn ere long) never reached the hand of Ethel Basset.