Fire flashed from the dark eyes of Mordaunt at the captain's positive and careless language, and he spoke again with all the spirited eloquence of a British sailor. He did not spare the cruel recklessness that could thus refuse to save a fellow-creature's life, merely because it might occasion a little delay and trouble. Captain Bartholomew looked at him in astonishment; he little expected such a burst of indignant feeling from one whose melancholy and love of solitude he had despised; and, without answering a word, led the way to the deck, looked in the direction of the plank, which had now floated near enough to the ship for the body of Edward to be clearly visible upon it, and then instantly commanded a boat to be lowered and bring it on board.
"It will be but taking him out of the sea to plunge him back again, Señor," he said, in Spanish, to the Lieutenant, who was now anxiously watching the proceedings of the sailors, who, more active than their captain, had carefully laid the plank and its burden at the bottom of the boat, and were now rapidly rowing to the ship. "Never was death more clearly imprinted on a man's countenance than it is there, but have your own will; only do not ask me to keep a dead man on board, I should have my men mutiny in a twinkling."
Mordaunt made him no answer, but hastened towards the gangway, where the men were now ascending. They carefully unloosed the bonds that attached the body to the plank, and laid him on a pile of cushions where the light of the setting sun shone full on his face and form. One glance sufficed for Mordaunt to perceive he was an English officer; another caused him to start some paces back in astonishment. As the youth thus lay, the deadly paleness of his countenance, the extreme fairness of his throat and part of his neck, which, as the sailors hastily untied his neckcloth and opened his jacket, were fully exposed to view, the beautifully formed brow strewed by thick masses of golden curls gave him so much the appearance of a delicate female, that the sailors looked humorously at each other, as if wondering what right he had to a sailor's jacket; but Mordaunt's eyes never moved from him. Thoughts came crowding over him, so full of youth, of home and joy, that tears gushed to his eyes, tears which had not glistened there for many a long year; and yet he knew not wherefore, he knew not, he could not, had he been asked, have defined the cause of that strong emotion; but the more he looked upon that beautiful face, the faster and thicker came those visions on his soul. Memories came rushing back, days of his fresh and happy boyhood, affections, long slumbering, recalled in all their purity, and his bosom yearned towards home, as if no time had elapsed since last he had beheld it, as if he should find all those he loved even as he had left them. And what had brought them back? who was the youth on whom he gazed, and towards whom he felt affection strangely and suddenly aroused, affection so powerful, he could not shake it off? Nothing in all probability to him; and vainly he sought to account for the emotions those bright features awakened within him. Rousing himself, as symptoms of life began to appear in the exhausted form before him, he desired that the youth might be carried to his own cabin. He was his countryman, he said; an officer of equal rank it appeared, from his epaulette, and he should not feel comfortable were he under the care of any other. On bearing him from the deck to the cabin, a small volume fell from his loosened vest, which Mordaunt raised from the ground with some curiosity, to know what could be so precious to a youthful sailor. It was a pocket Bible, so much resembling one Mordaunt possessed himself, that scarcely knowing what he was about, he drew it from his pocket to compare them. "How can I be so silly?" he thought; "is there anything strange in two English Bibles resembling each other?" He replaced his own, opened the other, and started in increased amazement. "Charles Manvers!" he cried, as that name met his eye. "Merciful heaven! who is this youth? to whom would this Bible ever have been given?" So great was his agitation, that it was with difficulty he read the words which were written beneath.
"Edward Fortescue! oh, when will that name rival his to whom this book once belonged? I may be as brave a sailor, but what will make me as good a man? This Sacred Book, he loved it, and so will I." Underneath, and evidently added at a later period, was the following:
"I began to read this for the sake of those beloved ones to whom I knew it was all in all. I thought, for its own sake, it would never have become the dear and sacred volume they regarded it, but I am mistaken; how often has it soothed me in my hour of temptation, guided me in my duties, restrained my angry moments, and brought me penitent and humble to the footstool of my God. Oh, my beloved Ellen, had this been my companion three years ago as it is now, what misery I should have spared you."
Other memorandums in the same style were written in the blank leaves which appeared attached for the purpose, but it so happened that not one of them solved the mystery which so completely puzzled Mordaunt. The name of Fortescue was utterly unknown to him, and increased the mystery of the youth's having produced such a strange effect upon his mind. There were many names introduced in these memorandums, but they explained nothing; one only struck him, it was one which in his hours of suffering, of slavery, ever sounded in his ear, the fondly-remembered name of her whom he longed to clasp to his aching heart—it was Emmeline; and as he read it, the same gush of memory came over him as when he first gazed on Edward. In vain reason whispered there were many, very many Emmelines in his native land; that name only brought one to his remembrance. Though recovering, the youth was still much too weak and exhausted to attempt speaking, and Mordaunt watched by his couch for one day and two nights, ere the surgeon permitted him to ask a question or Edward to answer it. Often, however, during that interval had the young stranger turned his bright blue eyes with a look of intelligence and feeling on him who attended him with the care of a father, and the colour, the expression of those eyes seemed to thrill to Mordaunt's heart, and speak even yet more forcibly of days gone by.
"Let me write but two lines, to tell Captain Seaforth I am safe and well," said Edward impetuously, as he sprung with renewed spirits from the couch on which he had been so long an unwilling prisoner.
"And how send it, my young friend? There is not a vessel within sight on the wide sea."
Edward uttered an exclamation of impatience, then instantly checking himself, said, with a smile—
"Forgive me, sir; I should think only of my merciful preservation, and of endeavouring to express in some manner my obligations to you, to whose generous exertions, blessed as they were by heaven, I owe my life. Oh, would that my aunt and sister were near me, their gratitude for the preservation of one whom they perhaps too fondly and too partially love, would indeed be gratifying to feelings such as yours. I can feel what I owe you, Lieutenant Mordaunt, but I cannot express myself sufficiently in words."