“Excellent, my dear madam,” said Captain Maxwell. “You have a fine poetic instinct.”
“The oaks that grew around Amy Robsart’s luxurious prison are replaced here by the bark’s masts and sails, captain, but the effect is not less beautiful.”
“A fine conception, Mrs. Evans, but we must remember that it is not summer in these latitudes, even though the dew is gathering, and you may take cold sitting there. Will you take my arm?”
They had paced the deck for some minutes, and the widow was relating some story that seemed greatly to amuse the captain, when the latter stopped suddenly, dropped on one knee, and stared at one of the deadlights’ near his feet.
“Good heavens! How you startled me, captain. Robinson Crusoe couldn’t have been more astonished when he saw the footprint in the sand, than you seem to be. What is it?”
“Worse than a footprint, Mrs. Evans. The moonlight prevented our noticing it sooner. Stand here—where your shadow falls on this deadlight. [132] Now what do you see?”
“A light reflected from below. Oh, Laura, the lazarette is on fire!”
Captain Maxwell was already disappearing through the hatchway, while the mate and Miss Blake ran up at the widow’s exclamation. Even the silent figure at the wheel started at the mention of the word fire.
It was but a moment before the master of the bark reappeared, bearing a lighted lantern in one hand.