“There goes his flag,” observed the second lieutenant.
“What! eh! It’s the Union Jack!” exclaimed Mulroy.
“I doubt not that your own captain commands the schooner,” said Henry, who had of course, long before this time, made the first lieutenant of the Talisman acquainted with Montague’s capture by the pirate, along with Alice and her companions. “You naturally mistrust Gascoyne, but I have reason to believe that, on this occasion at least, he is a true man.”
Mulroy returned no answer, for the two vessels were now almost near enough to enable those on board to distinguish faces with the telescope. A very few minutes sufficed to remove all doubts; and, a quarter of an hour later, Montague stood on his own quarterdeck, receiving the congratulations of his officers, while Henry Stuart was seized upon and surrounded by his friends Corrie, Alice, Poopy, the missionary, and Ole Thorwald.
In the midst of a volley of excited conversation Henry suddenly exclaimed, “But what of Gascoyne? Where is the pirate captain?”
“Why, we’ve forgotten him,” exclaimed Thorwald, whose pipe was doing duty like a factory chimney. “I shouldn’t wonder if he took advantage of us just now to give us the slip!”
“No fear of that,” said Mr Mason. “Poor fellow, he has felt your loss terribly, Henry, for we all believed that you were lost; but I am bound to confess that none of us have shewn a depth of sorrow equal to that of Gascoyne. It seems unaccountable to me. He has not shewn his face on deck since the day he gave up all hope of rescuing you, and has eaten nothing but a biscuit now and then, which he would suffer no one but Corrie to take to him.”
“Poor Gascoyne, I will go and relieve his mind,” said Henry, turning to quit the quarterdeck.
Now, the noise created by the meeting of the two vessels had aroused Gascoyne from the lethargic state of mind and body to which he had given way. Coming on deck, he was amazed to find himself close to the Talisman. A boat lay alongside the Foam, into which he jumped, and, sculling towards the frigate, he stepped over the bulwarks just as Henry turned to go in search of him.
The pirate captain’s face wore a haggard, careworn, humbled look, that was very different from its usual bold, lion-like expression. No one can tell what a storm had passed through the strong man’s breast while he lay alone on the floor of his cabin. The deep, deep sorrow—the remorse for sin—the bitterness of soul when he reflected that his present misery was chargeable only to himself. A few nights had given him the aspect of a much older man.