THE CASTAWAYS.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1288, 5 November 1896, Page 11

THE CASTAWAYS.

[Anne Fitziiugii Maclean.]

They lay upon a barren rock that uprose sharply from the sea —three men, wrought by the hand of famine into creatures almost without likeness to the form that they had borne. Close at their feet tossed a few timbers that alone remained of the ship that had gone down —how long before they could not tell, for through the mist cf anguish it had grown to seem a happening of the dreamlike past. The chaplain of the ship, b r er humblest sailor, and a passenger—a Judge of honourable note—they wore one semblance now, and that of horror.

Upon their bodies and the rock beneath, j the sun’s strength beat in its fullness. With what life was yet within, they lifted j constantly to their lips the water they had saved from the ship’s stores. No other object broke the desolation of that narrow island. Food there was none nor had been. They waited only death, and yet —rthey hoped. Kescue would come—that, the location of the rock assured them —if only they could live a little yet. But without food the hope was but another of starvation’3 tricks of torture. Food! Whence in that ghastly desert should it come ? They lay with souls as self-con-suming as their bodies. And then took place a thing beyond our knowledge of men’s minds. The eyes of these three, horrible already as they glared upon each other through their suffering, filled all at once with monstrous new significance.. There was no speech, yet each became possessed of one unspeakable conception. Whether it was his own or subtly thrust upon him by another’s wish, the thought ■was there in each. A hideous convulsion seized the sailor’s countenance as he struggled to castoff the unsought suggestion. The chaplain made a low ejaculation as of prayer. There w-as silence, and the thing grew —taunting, tormenting. At last the Judge

spoke, his voice unnatural in horror, yet his words strong, subtle, fearless, their meaning clear with unsupportable distinctness. He pleaded for life. Not for his own nor theirs ; but that, through sacrifice by one man of his portion, that miracle and mystery we call life should be preserved. He ceased, and the chaplain muttered : “ But the sin—iniquity past pardon !" “ Were the sin less," replied the Judge, “ that three lives perish or that two be saved ?"

“ Ay," groaned the sailor, “ there’ll be rescue soon, and why should three be rotting on this cursed rock ? I’ll take my chance of living." “ God’s mercy on our souls!" the chaplain said ; and thus it was agreed. Then “ Stay !" he cried again, “ there's no need to cast lots. I freely give my life, and thus will yours be spared, and I delivered from worse than death."

“ Not so ; no, we take our chance," they answered each, and so'cast lots. And it was upon him who desired it that the lot fell.

They gazed upon the rigid face between them, and saw bow he lay tortured no longer by starvation, and they thought each within himself: “It was well done."

And even as they thought thus, with hands poised for action, they glanced seaward, and saw on the far horizon a line of smoke. They looked in silence at the ship that grow ever larger, and again upon the ghastly thing that was stretched upon the rock. But into the face of one another they did not look. —The New Bohemian.