After what seemed an interminable time, the daylight shimmered in through the dead light on the deck of the ladies’ cabin, and up and down across the glass in the scuttle the green seas could be seen washing and lap—lap—lapping.
By-and-by they heard the captain’s voice in the saloon, and immediately after he sent to tell them that the danger was over, and the storm had blown itself out.
By noon next day the sea had gone so far down that temporary repairs were effected, and in a day or two more, in a calm blue sea, the ship was heeled over, and these repairs made good and substantial.
Then the Alba went on her adventurous voyage—adventurous, I mean, for so small a yacht—and the ladies took heart and came on deck to gaze and wonder at the marvels everywhere visible around them.
Into every creek went the Alba searching for tidings of the lost Kittywake.
In very few of these did they find inhabitants, and when they did, they had no news, or only sadly confusing news to give.
One day Captain Jahnsen came off from a little Yack village with a countenance beaming with hope and joy.
“I think,” he told Lady Alwyn, “I have got news of your son. Bad news partly.”
“Oh!” she cried, “it cannot be bad if he but lives.”
“Some months ago he was alive. I have met two Indians, who frankly confess they basely deserted the party after the ship had been burned, and a dearth of provisions followed. They are willing to be bribed to conduct us to the spot.”