"Weak—giddy—ill—Hartly—Bob Hartly, keep her head to the break of the sea, or we shall be swamped," said I, incoherently.
"By Jove, I thought the mulled port would bring you up with a round turn and make you speak if nothing else would."
"Where am I?" said I, partially recovering again.
"On board ship at last."
"Which—what ship?"
"The barque Princess of London."
"Thank God—thank God!" I exclaimed; but though my breast heaved with wild emotions of joy, not a tear would come, for even that fount of tenderness seemed dried up within me.
"We picked you up when in an awful plight, my poor fellow! Your boat was half full of water, with two dead bodies washing about in it."
"Two!"
"Yes—two, and you were lying in the stern-sheets looking as pale and as stiff as the others. We were just about to send you over to leeward with a cold shot at your heels, when, fortunately, some signs of life escaped you."