BY RALPH HAMILTON,
AUTHOR OF “CHESPA,” “OFF TO THE SOUTHWEST,”
ETC., ETC., ETC.
CHAPTER XII.
A SAIL—LAND.
Since the night of the mutiny they had been flying a signal of distress, and when Frank saw it fluttering at the mast-head, through his bitter, blinding tears, he wondered if it would bring assistance to him, or must he float on and on over this wide, silent sea till he, too, died? The thought was an appalling one, and he threw himself on the deck in an agony of despair.
So intense was his strange fear and grief and loneliness that he did not realize the fact that the schooner was driving through the water at the rate of five miles an hour, though he heard the wash of the waves against her sides, and felt the momentarily freshening wind blow cool on his face and pipe lonesomely through the cordage.
Weary, sick at heart, and worn out with watching, he finally fell asleep, and when he awoke the wind was gone, the sails flapped idly against the mast, and the sun, in unclouded splendor, was just beginning to peep above the eastern horizon.
He got up, feeling refreshed, but very hungry, went to the galley, searched around till he found some bread and a bit of cheese, and then came back to the shade of the awning to eat it.
The long day passed, the night came and went, and another day dawned, only to find Frank still drifting aimlessly on before any breeze that chanced to blow.
A little past noon he saw a sail a long way to windward, and so great was his joy at the discovery that he shouted at the top of his voice, and ran hither and thither about the deck in a mad transport of sudden hope and delight.