"This is my daughter, sir," he exclaimed, with cold emphasis; and though I knew he was not accountable for his behaviour, I shrunk back, feeling more completely snubbed than ever I remember being in my life. With her assistance he got into the bunk, and lay there quite still. She drew close to me, and obliged me to share the seat she made of the box which had contained the steward's linen. "You are not angry with him?" she whispered. "Indeed not." "I shall lose him soon. He will not live long," she said, and tears came into her eyes. "God will spare him to you, Miss Robertson. Have courage. Our trials are nearly ended. Once ashore he will recover his health--it is this miserable confinement, this gloomy cabin, this absence of the comforts he has been used to, that are telling upon his mind. He will live to recall all this in his English home. The worst has never come until it is passed--that is my creed; because the worst may be transformed into good even when it is on us." "_You_ have the courage," she answered, "not I. But you give me courage. God knows what I should have done but for you." I looked into her brave soft eyes, swimming in tears, and could have spoken some deep thoughts to her then, awakened by her words. I was silent a moment, and then said-- "You must not go on deck to-day. Indeed, I think you had better remain below until I ask you to join me." "Why? Is there any new danger?" "Nothing you need fear. The men who fancy themselves very nearly at their journey's end, threaten to grow boisterous. But my importance to them is too great to allow them to offend me _yet_. Still, it will be best for you to keep out of sight." "I will do whatever you wish." "I am sure you will. My wish is to save you--not my wish only--it is my resolution. Trust in me wholly, Miss Robertson. Keep up your courage, for I may want you to help me at the last." "You must trust in me, too, as my whole trust is in you," she answered, smiling. I smiled back at her, and said-- "Now, let me tell you what may happen--what all my energies are and have been engaged to bring about. On Friday afternoon I shall tell the carpenter that the ship is fifty or sixty miles off the coast of Florida. If the night is calm--and I pray that it may be--the ship will be hove to, that is, rendered stationary on the water; the long-boat will be slung over the side, and the quarter-boat lowered. All _this_ is certain to happen. But now come my doubts. Will the crew remain on board until the man they send into the hold to scuttle the vessel rejoins them? or will they get into the boats and wait for him alongside? If they take to the boats and wait for the man, the ship is ours. If they remain on board, then our preservation will depend upon the bo'sun." "How?" "He will either kill the man who gets into the hold, or knock him insensible. He will then have to act as though _he_ were the man he has knocked on the head." "I see."