I started later on. As if at the dictates of a fatal destiny, I was ordered on board the newly manned frigate, _The Northern Eagle_. This frigate took not only the sick men of the crew, but also the great collection which the count had been at so much pains to acquire, consisting of pictures, statues, bronzes, and other rare things. They were the fruit of the count’s victories in the Turkish and Grecian waters. Amongst other things I found several presents made by the Princess to the count, and, to my astonishment, her portrait, resembling so much Elizabeth. “But God’s ways are not our ways.” Hardly had we loaded the frigate with the riches of Orloff, and left the harbour, when we encountered a most awful storm. I could not say to the frigate, “You carry Cæsar!” Long were we tossed on the waves, thrown first on the coast of Algiers, then on that of Spain. Near Gibraltar our two masts and all our sails were wrenched away. Finally, we lost our rudder. For more than a week the current and a light breeze have borne us along the African coast. We have all lost courage, and can but pray. On the tenth day, that is to say, yesterday, the wind quite fell. I go on writing--but can we expect to be saved in this condition? The frigate, like a lifeless corpse, maimed and disfigured in battle, is borne whither the waves drive her-- * * * * * Again another hopeless day has passed. The dark terrifying night is coming on. Clouds are gathering; again the wind is rising; now it is raining. The coast of Africa has disappeared, and we are carried on to the West. The waves are lashing against the sides of the ships, splashing the deserted deck. The leak in the hold is getting larger every minute. The exhausted sailors can hardly pump any longer. The cannon have been thrown overboard. At night we fire our muskets, vainly imploring aid, but there’s not a sail to be seen. We, doomed to perdition, are alone. No one hears us. Tragic, awful fate. To be lost on a solitary ship, without hope, and with all the spoils of the commander-in-chief. When will the end come? On which rock is our ship destined to be wrecked, on which fated to founder? Fit retribution for the action of others. The fatal cargo of Count Orloff is hateful to God. * * * * * Three o’clock in the night. My confession is ended. The bottle is ready; and if there’s no hope of being saved, I’ll throw it in the sea. One word more. I should like to let Irena----my last greeting; my last wish.--She ought to know--Good God! what is that? Impossible! Already the end? What an awful crash!--The frigate has struck something. Ah! screams.--I must run to my crew.--His Holy Will be done. * * * * *