If they had known the wastes lost love must cross The wastes of unlit lands-- If they had known what seas of salt tears toss Between the barren sands. If she had known that when in the wide west The sun sank gold and red, He whispered bitterly: “’Tis like the rest,” The warmth and light have fled. If he had known that she had borne so much For sake of the sweet past, That mere despair said: “This cold look and touch Must be the cruel last!” If she had known the longing and the pain. If she had only guessed-- One look--one word--and she perhaps had lain Reconciled on his breast! Too late! Too late! All was ending now, the pain, the despair, of weary years and Death stared him in the face--Death that he had longed for often as the best friend of the wretched! Why should we fear the beautiful angel Death, Who waits us at the portals of the skies, Ready to kiss away the struggling breath, Ready with gentle hands to close our eyes? Leon Lyndon had only one tie to bind him to life--this fair, loving daughter--but he knew they must be parted now, and he drew her close to the ladder, followed by Laurier, who had been most impatiently waiting, and again renewed his prayers to the men who were still crowding into the last boats. It was a sight to touch the coldest heart to anger to see such selfishness, so many men crowded into the few boats with just a few fortunate women and children who had had husbands and fathers strong enough to force a way for them. But on deck there were a score of people, two-thirds women and children, who were preparing to cast themselves into the sea on frail planks and life preservers, their only refuge. The last boat was filled, and there was but one woman in it. The rowers were putting off when a loud voice cried authoritatively: “Hold! You can crowd in another and you shall take this lady, or I will sink the boat, by thunder, and send your selfish souls to Hades!” It was a threat not to be lightly treated, and the rowers waited, turning their white, angry faces to the ladder where a man clambered down, assisting a beautiful young girl. It was Frank Laurier who had broken in on Lyndon’s unheeded and uncared-for pleadings, crying abruptly: “They will not hear you, sir, but give her to me and I will force them to take her in, or I will spring into the sea and overset the boat!” And catching the astonished girl from her father’s clasp, for the exigencies of the moment admitted of no ceremony, he made the bold stroke that insured Jessie’s safety, placing her swooning form in the boat with the grumbling crew who yet dared not refuse his command. Then they rowed quickly away out of reach of the storm of vituperations from the captain and other men who remained on the deck working away at a raft, on which they hoped to escape with the remaining women.