“Have I been to sleep, sir?” he cried apologetically.
“Yes, my lad; sound asleep for hours.”
“And the ship, sir—can you see the Nautilus?”
“No, my lad,” said the lieutenant, in a voice which he tried to make cheerful, but whose tones spoke of the deep despondency in his breast. “She is not in sight yet.”
The midshipman glanced sharply at the heavy, saddened countenances of the men, and read there a reflection of his own thoughts, that they were far-away on the wide ocean in an open boat without food or water, exhausted by a long night’s rowing, and in an hour the torrid sun would be beating down upon their heads.
Hunger—thirst—heat—all three to fight; but there was a worse enemy still—despair, as a torrent of recollections flashed through the lad’s brain, and he felt that unless the Nautilus hove in sight, their position was less to be envied than that of the poor negro lying dead beneath the flat which hid his face from their sight.