became conscious, I was still lying on the deck, but my bonds had been
cut, and I managed to stagger to my feet. I looked all around. Not a
living being could I see. Just then the sun came up, and as his glowing
disc showed above the quiet water, I caught, far away in the south, a
faint sparkle, and then saw two small dark spots, that before my
straining gaze disappeared. I doubt not that what I saw were the boats
containing the crew of the _Albatross_. I turned and looked around the
deck. The forms that I had seen were no longer visible, but just aft of
the wheel was a piece of canvas covering something. I walked over
feebly, for the blow that I had received had shaken me badly, and lifted
the canvas. There lay the dead bodies of my dear uncle and Captain
Raymond and big First Mate Robinson. Like a man in a dream I covered
them again, and again looked about the deck. Where was Helen? Not on the
deck. Had the villains taken her with them? I made my feeble way below
and went to Helen's cabin. The door was shut. I tried to open it. It was
locked. I examined the lock. The key was in it, and on the outside. They
had locked her in. I cautiously turned the key, opened the door, and
entered. There lay Helen, her dark hair streaming back over the pillow.
One round cheek rested softly on her brown, dimpled hand, the other bore
a lovely flush. The half-parted lips were like crimson rose-buds, and
over her bosom her white nightrobe rose and fell gently. She was asleep.
As I stood there she opened her eyes. When she saw me she smiled happily
and said in a sweet, sleepy voice, "Is it time to get up, Arthur? Why,
how pale you look. Are you ill?" And she rose on one arm and the smile
faded away.

"Yes, Helen," I said, as steadily as I could. "It's time to get up. Come
into the cabin as quickly as you can. I am not at all well." And I left
the little cabin, still like a man in a dream. Helen soon joined me. I
asked her if she had slept well. She had. Had she heard no unusual
noises in the night? No; she had not awakened once. So it was. Like a
tired, healthy child, Helen had slept through all that awful tragedy. I
shan't attempt to try and tell of the task I had in making her
comprehend our awful situation. She did not comprehend it. She wept
bitterly when I told her of the three dead bodies on the deck. She
moaned over my "poor, bruised head," and with gentle hands bathed and
bound it up. Then she said that she was hungry. We found the