The cry is, “A sail! a sail!” Brace high each nerve to dare the fight, And boldly steer to seek the foeman; One secret prayer to aid the right, And many a secret thought to woman Now spread the flutt’ring canvas wide, And dash the foaming sea aside; The cry’s, “A sail! a sail!” Three cheers for victory! Hush’d be each plaint o’er fallen brave; Still ev’ry sigh to messmate given; The seaman’s tomb is in the wave; The hero’s latest hope is heaven! High lift the voice in revelry! Gay raise the song, the shout, the glee; Three cheers for victory! So soon as he had ended this song, and without waiting to listen if any words of compliment were to succeed an effort that might lay claim to great excellence both in tones and execution, he arose; and, desiring his guests to command the services of his band at pleasure, he wished them “soft repose and pleasant dreams,” and then coolly descended into the lower apartments, apparently for the night. Mrs Wyllys and Gertrude, notwithstanding both had been amused, or rather seduced, by the interest thrown around a manner that was so wayward, while it was never gross, felt a sensation, as he disappeared, like that produced by breathing a freer air, after having been too long compelled to respire the pent atmosphere of a dungeon. The former regarded her pupil with eyes in which open affection struggled with deep inward solicitude; but neither spoke, since a slight movement near the door of the cabin reminded them they were not alone. “Would you have further music, Madam?” asked Roderick, in a smothered voice, stealing timidly out of the shadow as he spoke; “I will sing you to sleep if you will; but I am choaked when he bids me thus be merry against my feelings.” The brow of the governess had already contracted, and she was evidently preparing herself to give a stern and repulsive answer; but, as the plaintive tones, and shrinking, submissive form of the other, pleaded strongly to her heart, the frown passed away, leaving in its place a mild reproving look, like that which chastens the frown of maternal concern. “Roderick,” she said, “I thought we should have seen you no more to-night!” “You heard the gong. Although he can be so gay, and can raise such thrilling sounds in his pleasanter moments, you have never yet listened to him in anger.” “And is his anger, then, so very fearful?” “Perhaps to me it is more frightful than to others, but I find nothing so terrible as a word of his, when his mind is moody.” “He is then harsh to you?” “Never.” “You contradict yourself, Roderick. He is, and he is not. Have you not said how terrible you find his moody language?” “Yes; for I find it changed. Once he was never thoughtful, or out of humour, but latterly he is not himself.”