And with a smile upon her lips she closed her eyes, and wrapping her long scarf about her, fell back upon the couch.
Julia watched her long. In the dim light of the cabin-lamp she did not perceive that occasionally those bright eyes were half opened, and fastened upon her impatiently.
Satisfied at length that she was asleep, Julia gently left the cabin, and stole upon the deck, where Lieutenant Morris anxiously awaited her.
The moment her light form vanished, the invalid rose from her couch, and, with a triumphant smile, gazed round the vacant cabin.
"There is no one here now, William, but you and I. Now I will go with you to your beautiful home in the sea. Stay a moment, let me arrange my toilette. I do not look as well as I did, William, or this glass deceives me; but it matters not, you look kindly on me still, and I am happy now—happier than I have been for a long time. There, William, I am ready!" and following the shadow of her imagination, she glided with a stealthy step to the deck.
Lieutenant Morris and Julia were slowly pacing the deck, with their heads bent forward, forgetful of every thing but themselves; a light step was heard close behind them, and the low rustling of garments. They turned to look, but too late; Florette sprung past them, her foot rested on the gunwale, and with the cry, "I follow you, William!" the form of the girl disappeared over the side of the brig.
Lieutenant Morris sprung forward, and the cry of "man overboard!" was heard from the look-out; the sails were immediately thrown a-back, and the boat lowered—but the body of Florette was not found. Her long scarf was picked up, stained with blood; the worthy tar shuddered as he gazed upon it.
"Jack, I told you that shark was not following us for nothing; he's been in our wake now these ten days. I knew somebody on board had got to go to Davy Jones's locker."
"Poor girl! but heave ahead, Bill, it's no use after this, you know."
Julia was terribly shocked at the dreadful fate of Florette, and retiring to the cabin, she wept sadly, and long, for the poor girl—this last victim of the scourge of the ocean, murdered no less by him than were the hundreds his bloody hand had struck dead with the sword. Even the rude seamen shed tears for the lost and ill-fated girl; and a silence like that of the death-chamber reigned on board the little brig, as it swept noiselessly over the waters. No class of people are more proverbially light-hearted and thoughtless than seamen. The sad event of the preceding night seemed to have passed from the memories of all on board the Raker with the morning's dawn—from all save Julia. She, indeed, often thought of the unfortunate Florette, and her eyes were red, as if from much weeping, long after the pirate's mistress had been forgotten by all others.