But hours passed on. He strained his eyes through the gloom in the direction in which the ship had vanished to see if there were any sign there. None appeared. The progress of the fire was slow. It went on burning and glowing with wonderful energy all through the night, till at last, not long before dawn, the stern fell in, and nothing now was left but the sand-mound that covered the bows, which, burning beneath, gave forth smoke and fire. Then, exhausted by fatigue, he sank down on the sand and fell into a sound sleep. In the midst of thronging dreams, from the depths of that imaginary land where his weary spirit wandered in sleep, he was suddenly roused. A hand was laid on his shoulder, which shook him roughly, and a hoarse voice shouted in his ear, “Mess-mate! Halloo, mess-mate! Wake up!” Brandon started up and gazed with wild, astonished eyes around. It was day. The sun was two or three hours above the horizon. He was surrounded by half a dozen seamen, who were regarding him with wondering but kindly eyes. The one who spoke appeared to be their leader. He held a spy-glass in his hand. He was a sturdy, thick-set man of about fifty, whose grizzled hair, weather-beaten face, groggy nose, and whiskers, coming all round under his chin, gave him the air of old Benbow as he appears on the stage--“a reg’lar old salt,” “sea-dog,” or whatever other name the popular taste loves to apply to the British tar. “Hard luck here, mess-mate,” said this man, with a smile. “But you’re all right now. Come! Cheer up! Won’t you take a drink?” And he held out a brandy-flask. Brandon rose mechanically in a kind of maze, not yet understanding his good fortune, not yet knowing whether he was alive or dead. He took the flask and raised it to his lips. The inspiriting draught gave him new life. He looked earnestly at the Captain as he handed it back, and then seized both his hands. “God Almighty bless you for this, noble friend, whoever you are! But how and when did you get here? Who are you? Did you not see my signal on the rock yesterday--?” “One question at a time, mess-mate,” said the other, laughingly. “I’m Captain Corbet, of the ship _Falcon_, bound from Sydney to London, and these are some of my men. We saw this light last night about midnight, right on our weather-bow, and came up to see what it was. We found shoal water, and kept off till morning. There’s the _Falcon_, Sir.” The Captain waved his hand proudly to where a large, handsome ship lay, about seven miles away to the south. “On your bow? Did you see the fire _ahead_ of you?” asked Brandon, who now began to comprehend the situation. “Yes.” “Then you didn’t pass me toward the north yesterday?” “No; never was near this place before this morning.” “It must have been some other ship, then,” said Brandon, musingly. “But how did you get here, and how long have you been here?” Brandon had long since decided on the part he was to play. His story was all ready.