ly opened his eyes. "Have I
been dreaming?" he asked, looking up vacantly in Allan's face. His
eyes wandered higher, and encountered the dismantled masts of the wreck
rising weird and black against the night sky. He shuddered at the sight
of them, and hid his face on Allan's knee. "No dream!" he murmured to
himself, mournfully. "Oh me, no dream!"

"You have been overtired all day," said Allan, "and this infernal
adventure of ours has upset you. Take some more whisky, it's sure to
do you good. Can you sit by yourself, if I put you against the bulwark,
so?"

"Why by myself? Why do you leave me?" asked Midwinter.

Allan pointed to the mizzen shrouds of the wreck, which were still left
standing. "You are not well enough to rough it here till the workmen
come off in the morning," he said. "We must find our way on shore at
once, if we can. I am going up to get a good view all round, and see if
there's a house within hail of us."

Even in the moment that passed while those few words were spoken,
Midwinter's eyes wandered back distrustfully to the fatal cabin door.
"Don't go near it!" he whispered. "Don't try to open it, for God's
sake!"

"No, no," returned Allan, humoring him. "When I come down from the
rigging, I'll come back here." He said the words a little constrainedly,
noticing, for the first time while he now spoke, an underlying distress
in Midwinter's face, which grieved and perplexed him. "You're not angry
with me?" he said, in his simple, sweet-tempered way. "All this is my
fault, I know; and I was a brute and a fool to laugh at you, when I
ought to have seen you were ill. I am so sorry, Midwinter. Don't be
angry with me!"

Midwinter slowly raised his head. His eyes rested with a mournful
interest, long and tender, on Allan's anxious face.

"Angry?" he repeated, in his lowest, gentlest tones. "Angry with
_you_?--Oh, my poor boy, were you to blame for being kind to me when I
was ill in the old west-country inn? And was I to blame for feeling your
kindness thankfully? Was it our fault that we never doubted each other,
and never knew that we were traveling together blindfold on the way that
was to lead us here? The cruel time is coming, Allan, when we shall
rue the day we ever met. Shake hands, brother, on the edge of the
precipice--shake hands while we are brothers still!"

Allan turned away quickly, convinced that his mind had not yet recovered
the shock of the fainting fit. "Don't forget the whisky!" he sa