“How mean you? you told me there was no danger.”
“I told you falsely; there is death soon, and damnation afterwards; for you I have lost my soul!”
“Oh! say not so.”
“I say it. Leave me, leave me, woman, or I curse thee.”
“Curse me, Andrew? Oh, no! Kiss me, Andrew; and if we are to perish, let us expire in each other’s arms.”
“’Tis as well; you have dragged me to perdition. Leave me, I say, for you have my bitter curse.”
Thus was his guilty love turned to hate, now that death was staring him in the face.
Katerina made no reply. She threw herself on the deck, and abandoned herself to her feeling of bitter anguish. And as she lay there, and M’Clise stood at the helm, the wind abated; the vessel was no longer borne down as before, although the waves were still mountains high. The seamen on board rallied; some fragments of sail were set on the remnants of the masts, and there was a chance of safety. M’Clise spoke not, but watched the helm. The wind shifted in their favour; and hope rose in every heart. The Firth of Tay was now open, and they were saved! Light was the heart of M’Clise when he kept away the vessel, and gave the helm up to the mate. He hastened to Katerina, who still remained on the deck, raised her up, whispered comfort and returning love; but she heard not—she could not forget—and she wept bitterly.
“We are saved, dear Katerina!”
“Better that we had been lost!” replied she, mournfully.