"It was he," added O'Neill, gravely. "He was hit by the first shot, and went overboard. Did you not feel him strike the keel?"
"Is there no hope for him?" she queried anxiously. "Could we not put back and seek him?"
"None," replied the young lieutenant, shortly. "There was death in his voice; it's all over with him. Well, he died in the line of his duty; 'tis a sailor's cherished hope."
"He helped me--both of us--in time of need; our way to liberty and happiness," she cried piteously, "seems to be over the bodies of those who love us."
"So it has ever been in the world,--a thousand deaths to make one life, a thousand griefs to make one joy," he answered, laying his hand tenderly upon her head, which she had buried in her hands.
"But what come what may," she added, looking up resolutely, with all the selfishness of love, "I have you, at least, and we are together again."
"Ay, let us pray it may be forever, sweetheart."
They were out of the harbor now; and while the Serapis was stretching along to the northeast to gain an offing, with the Scarborough some distance ahead of her, and to leeward, the lighter draft of the small boat permitted O'Neill to head her directly for the oncoming American ships, whose lights, and the ships themselves, were now plainly visible in the moonlight.