A signal had been made to the prize-ship, and she, too, was put under full sail.
Away—away—the schooner went, and left far, far behind, the wretched being who had been thrown overboard. He could scarcely now be seen, it was but when the cask rose and fell on the crest of the heaving billows that a glimpse could be had of him. But his cries still reached the flying schooner. They gradually grew fainter and fainter; then they came like the intermittent moans of agony, low, and few, and far between, and then they were heard no more.
The captain gave his orders to the officer on duty to steer a certain course and then left the deck.
The day had by this time passed, and the fleeting twilight of the tropics was yielding to the darkness of night. The crew of the schooner betook themselves to their respective quarters. But the priest and his ward still lingered on the deck. Their strained eyes were fixed in the direction where the cask and its load had disappeared, and fancied they saw, every moment, the unfortunate Willmington rise, now and then, in the dim crepuscule. But they watched in vain, and saw not what they imagined they did. Far, far out of sight was the cask already borne, and Heaven only knew whether the living being, that rode upon it, still drew the breath of life.
Saddened by the event of the day, they at length, in melancholy silence, left the deck, when the darkness had increased and had deprived them of the power of continuing their useless watch. Night, then, closed over the Black Schooner; and the faint ripplings of the water as she glided through, were the only sounds that might fall on the listening ear.
CHAPTER IX.
“Say that upon the altar of her beauty
You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart.”