"Ours must be a lifelong keeping down of the serpent," said Percy, rather as if thinking aloud than as if addressing himself to his companions. There was silence for a few moments in all the circle, and an expression of grave thought even on Julia's little face. Then Louis exclaimed—
"That story of persevering courage was such a short one, that I am sure that uncle ought to give us another; why, it was not any longer than Julia's."
"Oh! Give us another! Give us another!" cried the little people eagerly.
"That may not be so easy to do at a moment's notice," replied Mr. Presgrave, taking off his spectacles, however, which the children thought a sign that their request would be granted. He slowly rapped the table for a few moments with his fingers, passed his hand over his smooth forehead, and then, es if a thought had struck him, leaned back in his chair, and began.
Mr. Presgrave's Tale.
THE SHIPWRECK.
"It must now be forty years ago—yes, it was in the year 1814, when I was on a visit to some friends at St. Andrews—that, on one fearful wintry day, intelligence circulated through the place that a vessel had been driven on a sandbank in the bay to the east of the town. I remember that the news reached us as we sat round the table, by a blazing fire, enjoying a comfortable meal. In a minute the room was empty—cloaks and hats were snatched from their pegs, and we all hurried down to the beach."
"A crowd of sailors, citizens, and students were already assembled there; and what a sight presented itself to our view! The vessel had been cast ashore but a few hundred yards from the dry land, and she lay so near that, though the air was darkened by the driving sleet, we could see at intervals the fingers of the crew clinging to the ropes and spars as each billow broke over her side! What was to be done? How could aid be afforded? Must the sufferers perish before our eyes! The hardiest fishermen drew back, and dared not face the fearful surge. For myself, I knew not how to swim. I could only attempt to urge on others to do that which I yet feared was but throwing away life, and adding another victim to those before us!"
"At length I heard a murmur through the excited crowd: 'He will go—he has offered;' and pressing forwards I beheld John Honey, a young student of divinity, preparing to venture into the raging sea. Remember his name, and honour it, my children, though his reward is above the praise of man! Tying a rope round his waist, holding a knife between his teeth, and struggling through the surf, he threw himself into the waves! I, among others, grasped that rope, and watched with sickening anxiety the swimmer making his way through the sea! Each giant billow seemed as though it would dash him to destruction; his progress became more slow, he was growing faint we feared."
"'He will never reach the vessel!' we cried, and began to draw him back by the rope! But not so easily was his humanity foiled, or his perseverance baffled. Judge of our astonishment, our terror, when we felt the rope lightened of its weight, and pulled it on shore without resistance! The determined young hero had cut it away, and so severed his connection with the shore!"