“Take me with you.”
The terrible swiftness of the tragedy following upon the fierce combat had left the spectators on the Irene stupefied. They gazed at the tossing waters with startled eyes, and when they withdrew their gaze, and would look at each other, there came between them the vision of falling spars, of people precipitated headlong into the sea, and of a great ship rolling over on them.
Then some of the men sobbed, and some swore.
Webster whispered the name of his sister, and Miss Anstrade seemed to shrink within herself.
Their comrades, those brave hearts, gone, gone in a few minutes, and to save them!
They put about, steamed slowly over the waste of waters, where floated a litter of wreckage, and rescued half a dozen Brazilian sailors. Of Captain Pardoe, or any of his gallant band, there was no trace, and the Irene moved up and down among the wreckage, while those on board searched in vain for a familiar form.
Then Lieutenant Webster steered for the east.
The venture was over. The Irene, battered as she was, could not dare to risk another meeting with a cruiser, and so, sick at heart and indifferent, Webster accepted Hume’s advice and steamed away from Brazil.
As for Miss Anstrade, she went, feeling her way, like one blinded, to the cabin that had been prepared for her, and there sat white and silent, while her dark eyes, glaring with an unnatural light, moved restlessly from object to object. In the afternoon she rushed on deck in a raging fever, and, calling on her brother and Captain Pardoe, would have leapt overboard had not Hume caught her as her hand was on the rigging. He and Webster carried her down, struggling pitifully, and in turns the two of them watched through the night by her side, their sorrow tinged with awe and bitterness, because of their helplessness, at the pathetic ravings of a mind in delirium.
Through the next dreary day they continued their vigil, and the sailors, gathering in groups, added to the gloom of the ship by their distressed air and dark forebodings.