“Oh, Admiral Havenful! Pet’s lost! been carried off by those dreadful smugglers!” said Erminie, sinking back in a fresh burst of passionate grief.
“Stand from under!” exclaimed the old sailor, in a slow, bewildered tone, every reasoning faculty completely upset by this astounding intelligence.
“Oh, it was my fault! it was my fault!” cried Erminie, with bitter self-reproach. “I should not have allowed her to go last night at all. Oh, I will never, never forgive my self as long as I live,” and another burst of tears followed the declaration.
“Stand from under!” reiterated the admiral, still “far wide”; “Firefly carried off by the smugglers! Good Lord! Keep her round a point or so.”
“They will take her off to sea, and she will never come back again. Oh, Pet,” wept Erminie in a wild outburst of grief.
“Now, Snowdrop, just hold on a minute, will you?” said the admiral, facing briskly round. “Just stand by till we see how we’re coming. The question is, now, where’s Firefly? That’s the question, ain’t it, Snowdrop?”
Erminie’s sobs were her only answer.
“Just stand by a minute longer, will you?” said the admiral, lifting up the forefinger of his right hand, and aiming it at Erminie’s head. “Firefly’s gone—sunk—went to the bottom, and no one left to tell the tale—ain’t that it, Snowdrop?”
Erminie, knowing the admiral must be answered, made a motion of assent.
“Now the question is,” went on the admiral, bringing the finger down upon the palm of his other hand, and looking fixedly at them; “the question; what did Firefly run afoul of? She must have run afoul of something, mustn’t she, Snowdrop?”