the corner of the shrubbery and was lost in the shadow. She turned from
the window. A gentle sense of vague and half maternal pity suffused her
soft eyes as she at last sought her couch and fell into a deep slumber.
Towards daybreak a wind arose over the sleeping town and far outlying
waters. It breathed through the leaves of the Mission garden, brushed
away the clinging mists from the angles of the towers, and restored
the sharp outlines of the ruined fortifications. It swept across the
unruffled sea to where the Excelsior, cradled in the softly heaving bay,
had peacefully swung at anchor on the previous night, and lifted the
snowy curtain of the fog to seaward as far as the fringe of surf, a
league away.
But the cradle of the deep was empty--the ship was gone!
CHAPTER VII.
THE GENTLE CASTAWAYS.
Miss Keene was awakened from a heavy sleep by a hurried shake of her
shoulder and an indefinite feeling of alarm. Opening her eyes, she was
momentarily dazed by the broad light of day, and the spectacle of Mrs.
Brimmer, pale and agitated, in a half-Spanish dishabille, standing at
her bedside.
"Get up and dress yourself, my dear, at once," she said hurriedly, but
at the same time attentively examining Miss Keene's clothes, that were
lying on the chair: "and thank Heaven you came here in an afternoon
dress, and not in an evening costume like mine! For something awful has
happened, and Heaven only knows whether we'll ever see a stitch of our
clothes again."
"WHAT has happened?" asked Miss Keene impatiently, sitting up in bed,
more alarmed at the unusual circumstance of Mrs. Brimmer's unfinished
toilet than at her incomplete speech.
"What, indeed! Nobody knows; but it's something awful--a mutiny, or
shipwreck, or piracy. But there's your friend, the Commander, calling
out the troops; and such a set of Christy Minstrels you never saw
before! There's the Alcalde summoning the Council; there's Mr. Banks
raving, and running round for a steamboat--as if these people ever heard
|