of blood, fresh from the heart, uncoloured by the air, gushed into the wave. "Cursed be the murderer in his last hour!—Hell waits its victim."—Such was the chaunt which the sable crew ever and anon sung in low solemn tones.
Well was it understood by Glenarvon, though sung in a foreign dialect. "Comrades," he exclaimed, "do you behold that vessel? Am I waking, or do my eyes, distempered by some strange malady, deceive me? Bear on. It is the last command of Glenarvon. Set full the sails. Bear on,—bear on: to death or to victory!—It is the enemy of our souls you see before you. Bear on—to death, to vengeance; for all the fiends of hell have conspired our ruin." They sailed from coast to coast—They sailed from sea to sea, till lost in the immensity of ocean. Gazing fixedly upon one object, all maddening with superstitious terror, Lord Glenarvon tasted not of food or refreshment.
