reathing deeply and as regularly as if
nothing whatever were wrong.

How that night passed Mark Vandean could hardly tell. He crept from
place to place in the boat to see how the men were, and then crept back
to his old seat close by Mr Russell. Then, with the boat gently rising
and falling, he waited for the day, thinking of home, of the
possibilities of escape, and above all, of the terrible hunger and
fearful thirst which dried him up.

"Will morning never come?" he cried, bitterly, and then prayed that it
might not, as he recalled the sufferings of the past day; and now he was
content to sit, thankful that the day did not break, for there was rest
and less pain in the moonlight.

It was like the delirium of a fever, in which one moment it was all
calm, soft light in darkness, the next the sun had rolled above the
horizon, and the boy strained his eyes in all directions for the coming
ship, but looked in vain. Sea--smooth, slowly-heaving sea--everywhere,
all ruddy gold and amber now, and heat once more burning into his brain,
till a strange sense of weariness came over him, a feeling as of the
beginning of sleep.

He fought against this time after time, and strove to keep to his duty,
but it was all-powerful, and at last, feeling that he was sinking into
delirium or a deadly sleep, he stretched out his hand to awaken Tom
Fillot, but paused so as to give one despairing glance round.

The next instant he had glided down into the bottom of the boat,
insensible to everything save his fevered dream, which was of green
fields, sparkling waters, and home.

For the cutter was alone on the sun-bright water; and as a great bird
slowly floated over them, it looked down with cruel gaze, as if waiting
and watching and wondering which would be the first of the insensible
men on board to sink into a deeper sleep--one from which there would be
no return.

That was just as Mark was dreaming the brightest of his old Devon home,
and the sun was turning the sea into paler gold, and then into silvery
dazzling white.

CHAPTER NINE.

BOB HOWLETT AS NURSE.

"Oh, Mr Whitney, sir, don't say he's dead."

"Wasn't going to, my lad."

Mark heard those words spoken by familiar voices, but why or about whom
he could not tell. All he knew was that he was aboard ship, with the
warm air coming in through the port, and the water was splashing and
slapping against the side.

Then there was a good deal of buzzing conversation ca