The first impulse of those in the boat was to out oars and pull toward her, but five minutes’ work sufficed to show them that their chance was almost hopeless; the frigate would pass them at a distance of about six miles, and with every eye on board her intently fixed upon the chase, what prospect was there, in that uncertain light, of so small an object as the boat being seen at so great a distance? Nevertheless, they toiled on with dogged perseverance, and did not abandon their efforts until the frigate had passed them, and her topsails had sunk below the horizon. Then indeed they laid in their oars, and directed their whole attention to Walford, whose condition became more alarming every moment.
Not that he made any complaint. The poor fellow indeed seemed to be quite unconscious of his pain and weakness; but his ghastly pallor, his laboured breathing, and the convulsive shudders which agitated his frame from time to time were to George a tolerably clear indication that dissolution was near at hand.
He was still quite light-headed, his mind wandering in feverish haste from scene to scene of his boyhood, as was evident from the rapid disjointed sentences which poured uninterruptedly from his lips. George was able to gather pretty clearly from them that, even as a lad, Walford had been wilful, headstrong, and obstinate, prone to go his own way without much consideration for the wishes of others, and there were occasional wild words and broken exclamations which seemed to indicate that, even whilst little more than a mere child, he had allowed himself to be betrayed into actual crime. And as he lay there, gasping his life away, the follies of boyhood and the graver offences of more recent days seemed to be in some way jumbled up hopelessly in his disordered mind with a confused idea of the urgent necessity for speedy repentance of both. There could be no doubt that, notwithstanding the disordered state of the unhappy man’s intellect, conscience was busily at work with him; that he was already beginning to dimly see the error of his ways and the hollowness—the utter unprofitableness—of his past life, and possibly also the critical nature of his position. But the mind was too completely shattered to avail itself of these promptings, and the remorse and regret which had tardily come to him found expression only in the simple pleadings for pardon which a child offers to its grieved parent. This distressing state of things lasted at intervals all through the night and well into the following day, when the dying man, utterly exhausted, sank into a fitful, troubled sleep.
The pangs of hunger and—still worse—of thirst again making themselves felt, George once more put the fishing-line over the side, and, after waiting patiently for nearly an hour, had the satisfaction of feeling a smart tug at it. He gave a sharp jerk, to strike the hook firmly into his fish, and at once began to haul smartly in, but he had only gathered in a foot or so of the line when there came a terrific pull at it, which sent the cord flying through his fingers in spite of all his efforts to hold it. He promptly called Tom to his assistance, but even with this aid he was unable to hold the fish; and, as a last resource, he threw a couple of turns round one of the thowl-pins. The result was disastrous; the line snapped short off at the pin, and when they came to investigate further, they found that they had lost the whole of it, except a bare fathom, which still remained in the boat.
This was a misfortune indeed, as it deprived them of their only means of obtaining that sustenance which was now becoming so urgent a necessity to them. But sailors are not easily disheartened, and they forthwith set to work to manufacture a new line out of the rope which they still had in the boat; Tom carefully unlaying the strands and jointing the yarns, whilst George tried his best to manufacture a hook out of a nail drawn from the gunwale of the boat. This task occupied them for the remainder of the day, and when it was completed the hook and line together constituted such a very make-shift, hopeless-looking affair that George, in spite of his hunger, could not repress an incredulous smile at the idea of any fish with his wits about him being beguiled by it. They tried it, however, but it was an utter failure; they could not secure even the barren encouragement of a nibble; and at last the attempt was given up in despair.
Shortly before sunset Walford once more opened his eyes, and began to stare blankly about him. For a minute or two there was a look in his eyes which encouraged George to hope that reason was returning to her abandoned throne, but the look quickly passed away, and the incoherent mutterings recommenced. The sun went down, night’s mantle of darkness once more descended upon the sea, and then the full moon in all her queenly beauty rolled slowly into view above the horizon, flooding the scene with her silvery light, and investing it with a magical beauty which was not without its influence even on those poor famine-stricken creatures, who were watching with such sympathetic solicitude beside their dying companion.
Suddenly Walford’s mutterings ceased, an expression of joyous surprise lighted up his ghastly wasted features, he seized George’s hand with a firm clasp in one of his, and, raising the other, exclaimed—
“Hark! what was that?”
“I heard nothing, Ned,” answered George tremulously; he knew instinctively now that the last dread moment was close at hand,—“I heard nothing; what was it?”
“My mother,” answered Walford,—“my mother calling to me as she used to call me, when I was a little innocent child, when she—ha! there it is again. It is her own dear, well-remembered voice. She is calling me to go to her; I must not stay out at play any longer; I did so last night, you know, and it grieved her. She said I was a naughty, disobedient boy, and I made her cry. But she forgave me and kissed me after I had said my prayers, and—and—‘Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is done in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses.’”