Dillon and the cockswain were now the sole occupants of their dreadful
station. The former stood in a kind of stupid despair, a witness of the
scene we have related; but as his curdled blood began again to flow more
warmly through his heart, he crept close to the side of Tom, with that
sort of selfish feeling that makes even hopeless misery more tolerable,
when endured in participation with another.
"When the tide falls," he said, in a voice that betrayed the agony of
fear, though his words expressed the renewal of hope, "we shall be able
to walk to land."
"There was One and only One to whose feet the waters were the same as a
dry dock," returned the cockswain; "and none but such as have his power
will ever be able to walk from these rocks to the sands." The old seaman
paused, and turning his eyes, which exhibited a mingled expression of
disgust and compassion, on his companion, he added, with reverence: "Had
you thought more of Him in fair weather, your case would be less to be
pitied in this tempest."
"Do you still think there is much danger?" asked Dillon.
"To them that have reason to fear death. Listen! do you hear that hollow
noise beneath ye?"
"'Tis the wind driving by the vessel!"
"'Tis the poor thing herself," said the affected cockswain, "giving her
last groans. The water is breaking up her decks, and, in a few minutes
more, the handsomest model that ever cut a wave will be like the chips
that fell from her timbers in framing!"
"Why then did you remain here!" cried Dillon, wildly.
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