Poor Mary had slept but little, although Turk and Harry had made her a comfortable couch with their jackets.
Now, as the gray dawn stole upon the waters, the young girl looked round her with a weary sigh.
The fog had cleared, the faint rays of the sun were beginning to tinge the east, but, far and wide, nothing but sky and water were visible.
Sky and water, and nothing aboard the raft—not even a morsel of bread or a drop of fresh water.
Already the girl began to feel the cravings of thirst. With powerful effort, she endeavored to forget that she felt this want, but in vain.
The day wore away, the sun went down, night began to settle upon the waters.
The men strained their eyes vainly for land or sail.
Next morning the sufferings of all from thirst were intense. Brand, pulling forth his bottle of gin, drank deeply, not offering a drop to the rest.
Then Turk presented his grog to Harry.
"Give some to the poor lass!"