He drew her slender figure to him with his failing hands and kissed her with pallid lips, and then Prout the trader gave up the battle of life.
MRS. CLINTON
I.
As the sun set blood red, a thick white fog crept westward, and the miserable fever-stricken wretches that lay gasping and dying on the decks of the transport Breckenbridge knew that another day of calm—and horror—waited them with the coming of the dawn on the morrow.
Twenty miles away the dark outline of the Australian shore shone out green and purple with the dying sunshafts, and then quickly dulled again to the sombre shades of the coming night and the white mantle of fog.
On the starboard side of the high quarterdeck of the transport the master stood gazing seaward with a worn and troubled face, and as he viewed the gathering fog a heavy sigh broke from him.
“God help us!” he muttered, “ninety-six dead already, and as many more likely to die in another week if this calm keeos up.”
A hand was laid on his shoulder, and turning he met the pale face of the surviving surgeon of the fever-stricken ship.