"Well, drink your wine-and-water; remain quiet in the meantime. You may keep all your night watches below if you like, and, till you regain your strength, content yourself with exercise by day--a Dutchman's promenade, three steps and overboard, eh?" There was a pause, during which Morley sighed deeply. "Cheer up, Morley," said jolly Tom Bartelot; "look firmly ahead, and boldly face the little spray and black scud of misfortune. Pursue your present way contented for some time at least, with confidence and hope, and never look astern. It is no use, as nothing ever comes that way, either for good or for evil. It would be a poor love that won't outlast a sea voyage, however long it might be, and if Miss Basset forgets you----" "Forgets me--agony! Tom, she may be made to believe that I have deserted her." "Impossible!" "That I have been murdered, then!" "Hawkshaw would not tell upon himself, surely?" "That I fell over the cliff and was drowned!" "Ah--that would be a likely tale enough." "I know not what specious tale the villain may form to deceive Ethel and her father," continued Morley, impetuously. "When at Rio, write to her all about it." "Write! By the ship that bore my letter, I would fly to her." "I should prefer sailing; but every man to his taste. In another day or so, according to your own showing, she will be upon the sea!" "True--true, and with that wretch, most probably," said Morley, relapsing into wretchedness, and striking his forehead with his hand. "Come, come," urged Bartelot, patting him on the shoulder, "turn out and take a sniff of the breeze on deck. Another glass of wine first; drink and be jolly, man. What says the old song? for it is an old song of Captain Topham's, and none of mine, be assured! "'You bid me my jovial companions forsake, The joys of a rural recess to partake; With you, my good friend, I'll retreat to the vine, Its shelter be yours, but its nectar be mine; For each 'twill a separate pleasure produce, You cool in its shade, while I glow with its juice; For own no delight with his rapture can vie, Who always is drinking, yet always is dry.'" "Many a night have we sung that together when in the Bonny River, on board the dear old _Rattler_," said Morley, listening with pleasure to the song which Bartelot trolled forth with a fine mellow voice. "Ah!--the _Rattler_," said Bartelot, sighing; "they broke her up for firewood--think of that. I sent my old mother at Liverpool a table made out of her timber." "Go ahead, Tom--finish your song." "Ah, there is life in the old dog yet, I see," replied Bartelot as he resumed: