From that time forward the unfortunate man made incessant and wild efforts to get out of the cave. He climbed and scrambled about until his clothes were almost torn off his back. He gathered the largest masses of wood he could find and tied them together in bundles, until he had made something like a raft; but John was not a handy workman; his raft overturned the first time he tried it, and went to pieces, and he would have been drowned at that time if he had not been within grasping distance of the rocks. As it was, he got a fright which made him finally turn from that method of escape in despair. Then the raw pork and hard pease tried him severely, and brought on a complaint which lasted a considerable time and greatly reduced his strength, but John was tough, and recovered--though not much more than the skeleton of his former self remained. Thus he continued to exist in that cavern, during all the time that his wife and friends were mourning him as dead; and in this condition was he there seated, on the morning in which this chapter opens. "Weary, weary--desolation!" moaned the unfortunate man, lifting his head and gazing round, with the air of one from whom all hope has long since departed. It is said, or supposed, that when a spoke in Fortune's wheel is at the lowest, there must needs be a rise. Mitford's experience at this time would seem to give ground for belief in the saying; for the word "desolation" had scarcely passed his lips, when distant voices of men were heard, causing his heart to bound violently. Next moment a boat glided in front of the cave's mouth. John Mitford sprang up and gave vent to a yell! Hope raised to strong life after being long deferred; despair suddenly trampled in the dust; joy bounding as from the tomb into rampant being-- and a host of indescribable sentiments and passions found vent in that tremendous, that inconceivable howl! And its effect on those in the boat?--Well-- That morning our exploring party had resumed their voyage with somewhat saddened hearts, for they remembered the look of the coast well, and knew that an hour or so would bring them to the cave where the _Lapwing_ had gone down. Even Black Ned had become sentimental, and given vent to a few expressions of a semi-religious nature! "We can't be far from it now," said Dr Hayward, as the men ceased rowing, and the boat glided slowly, silently along. "It's a gruesome place," remarked Black Ned, in a low voice. "To think that so many lives were lost here--or hereabouts," murmured Tomlin. "An' their ghost, maybe, hangin' about!" suggested Slag, with a superstitious glance over his shoulder. Just then Hayward bade O'Connor get up and stand in the bow with the boat-hook, ready to fend off,--an order which the Irishman, having been somewhat awed by the tone of the conversation, obeyed in silence.