they soon made for the open main. When poor L'Estrange next woke, nothing but waters were around him, and old England, and all good, all delightful, all virtuous, left on the lee. He then tried to nerve himself up; he drank, he swore like the rest, and even joined in the song—
"Why so pale and wan, fond lover?"
with its ending lines,—
"If of herself she will not love
Nothing can make her."
"Ha! grown wise at last," said the Captain; "'let the devil take her,' and wine and laughter for us!"
L'Estrange's heart still beat true, and though he laughed, sang, and seemed after this the gayest of the gay, all was false. Often, when on his lone couch, on the lonely billow, his eyes would fill with bitter tears as he thought on what he was now, and what he had been; as he thought how sad a contrast his present loveless wicked life was to that of former years, he would cry with Byron—
"I look around, and cannot trace
One friendly smile, or welcome face;
And even in crowds am still alone
Because I cannot love but one."
CHAPTER VIII.
"When hope is chidden
That fain of bliss would tell,
And love forbidden
In the breast to dwell,—
When, fettered by a viewless chain,
We turn and gaze and turn again,
Oh! death were mercy to the pain
Of those that bid farewell!"—Heber.