reply of the coxswain. "It's a house, and a big one too."
It is a big one, looming in the starlight like a huge fragment of the darkness. The light comes from a single candle, which shines through a window as the great shape swings by. Some recollection is drifting back to me with it, as I listen with beating heart.
"There's some one in it, by Heavens! Give way, boys,—lay her alongside. Handsomely, now! The door's fastened; try the window; no! here's another!"
In another moment we are trampling in the water, which washes the floor to the depth of several inches. It is a large room, at the further end of which an old man is sitting wrapped in a blanket, holding a candle in one hand, and apparently absorbed in the book he holds with the other. I spring toward him with an exclamation:—
"Joseph Tryan!"
He does not move. We gather closer to him, and I lay my hand gently on his shoulder, and say:—
"Look up, old man, look up! Your wife and children, where are they? The boys,—George! Are they here? are they safe?"
He raises his head slowly, and turns his eyes to mine, and we involuntarily recoil before his look.
