The captain gazing through his glass, grew suddenly silent; his face fell. The passengers, curiously watching the limp, yellow rag, wondered much what it might presage.
Presently tiny boat shot out from the cedar-fringed shore, with one man at the oars—a painted toy which moved upon the glassy water like a tiny bird and the man climbed aboard.
He was tall, and lank, and yellow-faced; his limbs trembled as he followed the captain to the cabin, and he shunned the passengers with half-fearful looks when they would have questioned him.
In three minutes the captain and the stranger emerged from the cabin, and the passengers pressed forward to hear what catastrophe had befallen the city.
"We must just right-about face, and get back to New York," said the captain, ominously. "Not a soul can go ashore."
"What's up?" asked the gentlemen.
"Is it the plague?" whispered the ladies.
"Yellow fever," said the captain; "the whole city is raging, half the people are escaped to the main land, and the other half are dying."
Madame Hesslein's small, eager face grew pale; the chevalier burst into a heartfelt imprecation, and Mr. Davenport clutched the white Margaret's hand with a shocked, "Heaven preserve us!"
But she tore her hand away, and ran to the gaunt stranger, who had brought such dire news.