"With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part!
But the noblest thing that perished there
Was that young faithful heart!"

* * * * *

The battle is past and gone, a whole month has elapsed since then, and
the swift _Tonneraire_ is homeward bound with despatches. Many were
killed and wounded, among others good old Simmons, the master, who fell
at Jack's side on the deck of a French man-o'-war. He would never
grumble again; his deep bass, honest voice would be heard no more. There
was hardly a dry eye in the ship when the kindly old man's hammock was
dropped overboard in Aboukir Bay.

Yes, the _Tonneraire_ was homeward bound at last, after an absence of
two busy and eventful years. But the saddest, probably, of all her
adventures had yet to come. M'Hearty, Tom Fairlie, and young Murray were
in the captain's cabin one evening towards sunset. Murray was
particularly bright and pleasant to-night, and his laughing face and
merry, saucy blue eyes did every one good to behold.

Suddenly there is a cry on deck, "Sail ahead!" and next minute the drum
is beating to quarters. The _Tonneraire_ has been working against a head
wind, and now down upon her, like some monster sea-bird with wings
outspread, sweeps a huge French ship of war. The battle will be very
one-sided, but Jack will dare it. Already it is getting dusk; he must
try to cripple the monster. He manages to rake her, and a broadside of
iron hail is poured through her stern. He rakes her a second time, and
this time down thunders a mast. Well would it have been for Jack and
the _Tonneraire_ if he had now put his ship before the wind. But no, he
still fights on and on, and suffers terribly; and just as the shades of
night deepen into blackness, he manages to hoist enough sail to stagger
away, and the Frenchman is too sorely stricken to follow.

Very early next morning, before the stars had quite faded in the west,
or the sun had shot high his rays to gild the herald clouds, M'Hearty,
looking careworn, unkempt, and weary--for he had never been to
bed--entered Jack's state-room and touched him lightly on the shoulder.

Jack was awake in a moment.

"Anything wrong, doctor?" he asked quickly.

"Alas, sir!" replied M'Hearty, and there was a strange huskiness in his
voice as he spoke--"alas, sir! poor young Murray is dying fast."

"Murray dying!"

"Too true, sir. His wounds are far more grievou