“Great heaven! I do not, sir! We struck the sand-bank just after midnight. At daybreak, fourteen of our number left the ship in an open boat, that seemed to have no chance of living in such a sea; they embarked in the frantic expectation of being able to reach the Maryland shore. Whether the boat ever made the land, or whether, as is most likely, she went down amid the waves, I have no means of knowing! I only know, that except myself, those who preferred to remain and take their chances with the ship, fared no better than she did, whatever her fate may have been. Before that last great sea took us—and even before your ship hove in sight of us—we had lost several of our companions, blown off or washed off from their frail hold. Among those who were swept off right before my eyes, was a poor old fragile French woman—one Madame L’Orient. Good heaven! shall I ever get rid of that vision!” CHAPTER X. RECOGNITION OF THE DEAD BODY. “And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep, But where he died his grave is quite as deep! Nor is his mortal slumber less profound, That earth nor formed, nor marble decked the mound.”—_Byron._ Deeply shocked as he was, Lord Montressor bent earnestly forward to listen for something further. But Mr. Levering, apparently overcome with the thought of the scenes through which he had just passed, covered his face with his hands, and continued silent. The doubt that troubled Lord Montressor remained unsolved. For all that he could gather from Mr. Levering’s conversation, Victoire L’Orient might have been lost in the ship, or saved in the boat—supposing that the latter had lived to reach the shore. That his mother had preferred to stay in the ship, where she finally perished, was no sure sign that Victoire had not deserted her there, as he surely might have done had she persisted in remaining while he chose to depart. Finally, unwilling to disturb Mr. Levering with questions upon this painful subject, conscious also, perhaps, of feeling too deep an interest in the fate of Monsieur L’Orient, Lord Montressor bade his new acquaintance good-day, and, leaving him to repose, went up on deck. The storm had spent its fury. The wind and waves, as if they had accomplished the object for which they arose, had now subsided. The scene on deck was a stirring one. The captain, mate and crew were all busily engaged. One party, under the direction of the captain, were preparing to get under sail. Another set, at the orders of the mate, were letting down the boats. The captain stood forward, leveling his glass at the sand-bank that, strewn with sea-weed, shells and fragments of the wreck, now loomed largely from the retiring waves. Lord Montressor came up to the side of the skipper, who immediately lowered his glass and said—