As they drew nearer to the shores of their native country, Justin and Britomarte began to experience an intense and ever deepening anxiety. How, after so long an absence, should they find the friends they had left at home? Were they well? Were they even living? Who could tell? How slow was their approach to their destination! how torturing their suspense!
There came a day when Lieutenant Ethel said:
“In three weeks, if we have good luck, we shall make New York harbor.”
And then they counted the weeks, until the morning came when the young commander said:
“If this weather holds we shall be in port in four days.”
And then they counted the days until the night arrived in which the lieutenant announced:
“We shall be in New York at dawn to-morrow.”
And then they counted the hours. They sat up on deck until a late hour, hoping to be able to make out their native shore before going to rest. But there was no moon; and though the sky was clear and the stars bright overhead, yet the western horizon, on which their line of coast should appear, was veiled with clouds and fogs.
At length, weary with watching, they bade each other good-night and retired to their respective staterooms. Yet even then and there they could not sleep. The keen anxiety as to how they should find their friends, if indeed they should find them at all, and how they should find their country, if civil war had left them a country undivided—chased slumber from their eyes, until near dawn, when, as often happens to night-watchers, they fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, and slept profoundly until a late hour of the morning.
Britomarte was then aroused by a loud rapping at her stateroom door.