overwhelming.

As soon as I recovered my composure, I did not forget to thank Andre
Letourneur for the act of intervention that had saved my life.

"Do you thank me for that; Mr. Kazallon?" he said; "it has only served
to prolong your misery."

"Never mind, M. Letourneur," said Miss Herbey; "you did your duty."

Enfeebled and emaciated as the young girl is, her sense of duty never
deserts her, and although her torn and bedraggled garments float
dejectedly about her body, she never utters a word of complaint, and
never loses courage.

"Mr. Kazallon," she said to me, "do you think we are fated to die of
hunger?"

"Yes; Miss Herbey, I do," I replied in a hard, cold tone.

"How long do you suppose we have to live?" she asked again.

"I cannot say; perhaps we shall linger on longer than we imagine."

"The strongest constitutions suffer the most, do they not?" she said.

"Yes; but they have one consolation; they die the soonest;" I replied
coldly.

Had every spark of humanity died out of my breast that I thus brought
the girl face to face with the terrible truth without a word of hope
or comfort? The eyes of Andre and his father, dilated with hunger, were
fixed upon me, and I saw reproach and astonishment written in their
faces.

Afterwards, when we were quite alone, Miss Herbey asked me if I would
grant her a favour.

"Certainly, Miss Herbey; anything you like to ask," I replied; and this
time my manner was kinder and more genial.

"Mr. Kazallon," she said, "I am weaker than you, and shall probably die
first. Promise me that, if I do, you will throw my body into the sea."

"Oh, Miss Herbey," I began, "it was very wrong of me to speak to you as
I did!"

"No, no," she replied, half smiling; "you were quite right. But it is
a weakness of mine; I don't mind what they do with me as long as I am
alive, but when I am dead--" she stopped and shuddered. "Oh, promise me
that you will throw me into, the sea!"

I gave her the melancholy promise, which she acknowledged by pressing my
hand feebly with her emaciated fingers.

Another night passed away. At times my sufferings were so intense that
cries of agony involuntarily escaped my lips; then I became calmer, and
sank into a kind of lethargy. When I awoke, I was surprised to find my
companions still alive.

The one of our party who seems to bear his privations the best is Hobart
the steward, a man with whom hitherto I have had very little to do. He
is small, wi