A mist came for a moment over Mark Vandean’s sight, but it passed away; and, with the feeling of suffocation at his throat increasing now, he kept his glass upon the black head in the midst of the quivering water, where a man was swimming hard for life. Brought almost close to him by his powerful glass, Mark could nearly make out the agonised look upon the swimmer’s face, as, at every stroke, he made the water shimmer in the moonlight; and every moment as his forehead grew wet and his hands clammy, the midship, man expected to see the waves close over the poor wretch’s head.
Just then his attention was taken up by the voices of the Captain and lieutenant.
“The scoundrel! the fiend!” cried the former, with a stamp of rage upon the deck; “if it were not for those on board I’d sink him.”
“I wish we could, sir,” replied the first lieutenant; “we shall lose him.”
“No,” cried the captain. “He has thrown that poor wretch overboard, believing that we shall heave to and pick him up sooner than let him drown.”
“While he gets a mile away,” said the first lieutenant; “and as soon as we overhaul him again, he’ll throw over another—that is, sir, if we stop to pick the poor creatures up.”
“Help! boat! help!” cried Mark, unable to contain his feelings longer; and lowering his glass, he turned to the captain. “Look, sir, look!” he cried, pointing in the direction of the drowning black; “the poor fellow’s going down.”