bucket after bucket into the midst of the roaring flames.
At last he disappeared, no one knew where, and no one cared, for in such
a scene he was soon forgotten.

The last man left the ship when the heat on the poop became so great
that it was scarcely possible to stand there. Still Montague and
Gascoyne stood side by side near the taffrail, and the gig with her crew
floated just below them. The last boatful of men pulled away from the
burning vessel, and then Montague turned with a deep sigh and said--

"Now, Mr Gascoyne, get into the boat. I must be the last man to quit
the ship."

Without a word Gascoyne swung himself over the stern, and, sliding down
by a rope, dropped into the boat. Montague followed, and they rowed
away.

Just at that moment Surly Dick sprang on the bulwarks, and holding on by
the mizzen-shrouds took off his hat and cheered.

"Ha! ha!" he shrieked, with a fiendish laugh, "I've escaped you, have I?
escaped you--hurrah!" and with another wild shriek he leaped on the hot
deck, and, seizing a bucket, resumed his self-imposed duty of deluging
the fire with water.

"Pull, pull, lads! we can't leave the miserable man to perish," cried
Montague, starting up, while the men rowed after the frigate with their
utmost might. But in vain. Already she was far from them, and ever
increased the distance as she ran before the gale.

As long as the ship lasted the poor maniac was seen diligently pursuing
his work--stopping now and then to spring on the bulwarks and give
another cheer.

At last the blazing vessel left boats and schooner far behind, and the
flames rose in great flakes and tongues above her top-masts, while the
smoke rolled in dense black volumes away to leeward.

While the awe-stricken crew watched her there came a sudden flash of
bright white flame, as if a volcano had leaped out of the ocean. The
powder-magazine had caught. It was followed by a roaring crash that
seemed to rend the very heavens. A thick darkness settled over the
scene--and the vessel that a few hours before had been a noble frigate,
was scattered on the ocean a mass of blackened ruins.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

The Pacific is not always calm, but neither is it always stormy. We
think it necessary to make this latter observation, because the
succession of short-lived gales and squalls which have been prominently
and unavoidably brought forward in our tale might lead the reader to
deem the name of this ocean