“Mr. Kazallon,” she said, “I am weaker than you, and shall probably die first. Promise me that, if I do, you will throw my body into the sea.”
“Oh, Miss Herbey,” I began, “it was very wrong of me to speak to you as I did!”
“No, no,” she replied, half smiling; “you were quite right. But it is a weakness of mine; I don’t mind what they do with me as long as I am alive, but when I am dead—” she stopped and shuddered. “Oh, promise me that you will throw me into, the sea!”
I gave her the melancholy promise, which she acknowledged by pressing my hand feebly with her emaciated fingers.
Another night passed away. At times my sufferings were so intense that cries of agony involuntarily escaped my lips; then I became calmer, and sank into a kind of lethargy. When I awoke, I was surprised to find my companions still alive.
The one of our party who seems to bear his privations the best is Hobart the steward, a man with whom hitherto I have had very little to do. He is small, with a fawning expression remarkable for its indecision, and has a smile which is incessantly playing round his lips; he goes about with his eyes half-closed, as though he wished to conceal his thoughts, and there is something altogether false and hypocritical about his whole demeanour. I cannot say that he bears his privations without a murmur, for he sighs and moans incessantly; but, with it all, I cannot but think that there is a want of genuineness in his manner, and that the privation has not really told upon him as much as it has upon the rest of us. I have my suspicions about the man, and intend to watch him carefully. To-day, the 6th, M. Letourneur drew me aside to the stern of the raft, saying that he had a secret to communicate, but that he wished neither to be seen nor heard speaking to me. I withdrew with him to the larboard corner of the raft; and, as it was growing dusk, nobody observed what we were doing.
“Mr. Kazallon,” M. Letourneur began in a low voice, “Andre is dying of hunger: he is growing weaker and weaker, and oh! I cannot, will not see him die!”
He spoke passionately, almost fiercely, and I fully understood his feelings. Taking his hand, I tried to reassure him.
“We will not despair yet,” I said, “perhaps some passing ship—”
“Ship!” he cried impatiently, “don’t try to console me with empty commonplaces; you know as well as I do that there is no chance of falling in with a passing ship.” Then, breaking off suddenly, he asked,—“How long is it since my son and all of you have had anything to eat?”