spent by the leisurely Dutchman in providing fresh supplies, and the

stout bark's favourite maxim seemed to be, "the more haste the less

speed." Baffling winds and a dead calm helped to second this philosophy,

and the first week of June was past before they swung to their moorings

in Table Bay.

"What chance is there now of my doing any good?" the young Englishman

asked himself, bitterly. "This place is again in the hands of the Dutch,

and the English ships stand clear of it, or only receive supplies by

stealth. I am friendless here, I am penniless; and worst of all, if I

even get a passage home, there will be no home left. Too late! too late!

What use is there in striving?"

Tears stood in his blue eyes, which were gentle as a lady's; and his

forehead (usually calm and smooth and ready for the flicker of a very

pleasant smile) was as grave and determined as the brow of Caryl Carne.

Captain Van Oort would have lent him 500 guilders with the greatest

pleasure, but Scudamore would not take more than fifty, to support him

until he could obtain a ship. Then with hearty good-will, and life-long

faith in each other, the two men parted, and Scudamore's heart was

uncommonly low--for a substance that was not a "Jack-in-the-box"--as he

watched from the shore the slow fading into dream-land of the Katterina.

Nothing except patriotic feeling may justify a man, who has done no

harm, in long-continued misery. The sense of violent bodily pain, or of

perpetual misfortune, or of the baseness of all in whom he trusted, and

other steady influx of many-fountained sorrow, may wear him for a time,

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