If anywhere absolute isolation was to be found on earth, it was here, afar from the ocean’s traveled highways. Its situation was made known to Ayrton, who consented to live there; and the vessel was accordingly headed towards the island. Two days later the lookout hailed land on the horizon. It was Maria Theresa, low, long, and scarcely emerging from the waves, appearing like some enormous sea-monster. Thirty miles still lay between it and the yacht, whose prow cut the waves with such speed that soon the island grew distinct. The sun, now sinking towards the west, defined its outlines in glowing light. Several slight elevations were tinged with the last rays of the day.
At five o’clock Captain Mangles thought he distinguished a faint smoke rising towards the sky.
“Is that a volcano?” he inquired of Paganel, who, with his telescope, was examining the land.
“I do not know what to think,” replied the geographer. “Maria Theresa is a point little known. However, I should not be surprised if its origin was due to some volcanic upheaval.”
“But then,” said Glenarvan, “if an eruption created it, may we not fear that the same agency will destroy it?”
“That is scarcely probable,” answered Paganel. “Its existence has been known for several centuries; and this seems a guarantee for its continuance.”
“Well,” continued Glenarvan, “do you think, captain, that we can land before night?”
“No, certainly not. I ought not to endanger the Duncan in the darkness, on a coast that is not familiar to me. I will keep a short distance from land, and tomorrow at daybreak we will send a boat ashore.”
At eight o’clock Maria Theresa, although only five miles to windward, appeared like a lengthened shadow, scarcely visible. An hour later, quite a bright light, like a fire, blazed in the darkness. It was motionless and stationary.
“That would seem to indicate a volcano,” said Paganel, watching it attentively.
“However,” replied Captain Mangles, “at this distance we ought to hear the commotion that always accompanies an eruption, and yet the wind brings no sound to our ears.”
“Indeed,” observed Paganel, “this volcano glows, but does not speak. You might say that it throws out intermittent flashes like a lighthouse.”
“You are right,” continued Captain Mangles; “and yet we are not on the illuminated side. Ha!” cried he, “another fire! On the shore this time! See! it moves, it changes its place!”
He was not mistaken. A new light had appeared, that sometimes seemed to go out, and then all at once flash forth again.
“Is the island inhabited?” asked Glenarvan.
“Evidently, by savages,” replied Paganel.
“Then we cannot abandon the quartermaster here.”
“No,” said the major; “that would be giving even savages too dangerous a present.”
“We will seek some other deserted island,” resumed Glenarvan, who could not help smiling at MacNabb’s delicacy. “I promised Ayrton his life, and I will keep my promise.”
“At all events, let us beware,” added Paganel. “The New Zealanders have the barbarous custom of misleading ships by moving fires. The natives of Maria Theresa may understand this deception.”
“Bear away a point,” cried the captain to the sailor at the helm. “Tomorrow, at sunrise, we shall know what is to be done.”
At eleven o’clock the passengers and the captain retired to their cabins. At the bow the first watch was pacing the deck, while at the stern the helmsman was alone at his post.
In the stillness Mary and Robert Grant came on deck. The two children, leaning upon the railing, gazed sadly at the phosphorescent sea and the luminous wake of the yacht. Mary thought of Robert’s future; Robert thought of his sister’s; both thought of their father. Was that beloved parent still living? Yet must they give him up? But no, what would life be without him? What would become of them without his protection? What would have become of them already, except for the magnanimity of Lord and Lady Glenarvan?
The boy, taught by misfortune, divined the thoughts that were agitating his sister. He took her hand in his.
“Mary,” said he, “we must never despair. Remember the lessons our father taught us. ‘Courage compensates for everything in this world,’ he said. Let us have that indomitable courage that overcomes all obstacles. Hitherto you have labored for me, my sister, but now I shall labor for you.”
“Dear Robert!” replied the young girl.
“I must tell you one thing,” continued he. “You will not be sorry, Mary?”
“Why should I be sorry, my child?”
“And you will let me do as I wish?”
“What do you mean?” asked she, anxiously.
“My sister, I shall be a sailor—!”
“And leave me?” cried the young girl, clasping her brother’s hand.
“Yes, sister, I shall be a sailor, like my father, and like Captain John. Mary, my dear Mary, he has not lost all hope! You will have, like me, confidence in his devotion. He has promised that he will make me a thorough and efficient sailor, and we shall seek our father together. Say that you are willing, sister. What our father would have done for us it is our duty, or mine at least, to do for him. My life has but one object, to which it is wholly devoted—to search always for him who would never have abandoned either of us. Dear Mary, how good our father was!”
“And so noble, so generous!” added Mary. “Do you know, Robert, that he was already one of the glories of our country, and would have ranked among its great men if fate had not arrested his course?”
“How well I know it!” answered Robert.
Mary pressed her brother to her heart, and the child felt tears dropping upon his forehead.
“Mary! Mary!” cried he, “it is in vain for them to speak, or to keep silent. I hope still, and shall always do so. A man like our father does not die till he has accomplished his
