At daylight next morning, Neb came to the officers' tents to say, the
ship was getting her anchors. I was up and dressed in a moment. The
distance to the inlet was about a mile, and I reached it, just as the
Crisis was cast. In a few minutes she came sweeping into the narrow
pass, under her topsails, and I saw Emily and her father, leaning over
the hammock-cloths of the quarter-deck. The beautiful girl was so
near, that I could read the expression of her soft eyes, and I fancied
they were filled with gentle concern. The Major called out, "God
bless you, dear Wallingford"--then the ship swept past, and was soon
in the outer bay. Half an hour later, or before I left the spot, she
was at sea, under everything that would draw from her trunks down.
CHAPTER XVII.
"I better brook the loss of brittle life,
Than those proud titles thou hast won of me;
They wound my thoughts, worse than thy sword my flesh."
SHAKESPEARE
Half-way between this inlet and the ship-yard, I found Marble,
standing with his arms folded, gazing after the receding ship. His
countenance was no longer saddened; but it was fierce. He shook his
hand menacingly at the French ensign, which was flying at our old
gaff, and said--
"Ay, d----n you, flutter away; you quiver and shake now like one of
your coxcombs pigeon-winging; but where will you be this day two
months? Miles, no man but a bloody Frenchman would cast away a ship,
there where this Mister Count has left the bones of his vessel; though
_here_, where we came so nigh going, it's a miracle any man could
escape.
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