Chapter 22

With religious awe
Grief heard the voice of Virtue. No complaint
The solemn silence broke. Tears ceased to flow.

GLOVER.

Hope is the most treacherous of all human fancies. So long as there is a
plausible ground to expect relief from any particular quarter, men will
relax their exertions in the face of the most imminent danger, and they
cling to their expectations long after reason has begun to place the
chances of success on the adverse side of the scale. Thus it was with the
party in the Montauk. Two or three precious hours were lost in the idle
belief that the gun would be heard by Captain Truck, and that they might
momentarily look for the appearance of, at least, one of the boats.

Paul Blunt was the first to relinquish this delusion. He knew that, if it
reached their friends at all, the report must have been heard in a few
seconds, and he knew, also, that it peculiarly belonged to the profession
of a seaman to come to quick decisions. An hour of smart rowing would
bring the cutter from the wreck to the headland, where it would be
visible, by means of a glass, from the fore-top. Two hours had now passed
away and no signs of any boat were to be discovered, and the young man
felt reluctantly compelled to yield all the strong hopes of timely aid
that he had anticipated from this quarter. John Effingham, who had much
more energy of character than his kinsman, though not more personal
fortitude and firmness, was watching the movements of their young leader,
and he read the severe disappointment in his face, as he descended the
last time from the top, where he had often been since the consultation,
to look out for the expected succour.

"I see it in your countenance," said that gentleman, "we have nothing to
look for from the boats. Our signal has not been heard."

"There is no hope, and we are now thrown altogether on our own exertions,
aided by the kind providence of God."

"This calamity is so sudden and so dire, that I can scarcely credit it!
Are we then truly in danger of becoming prisoners to barbarians? Is Eve
Effingham, the beautiful, innocent, good, angelic daughter of my cousin,
to be their victim!--perhaps the inmate of a seraglio!"

"There is the pang! Had I a thousand bodies, a thousand lives, I could
give all of the first to unmitigated suffering, lay down all the last to
avert so shocking a calamity. Do you think the ladies are sensible of
their real situation?"

"They are uneasy rather than terrified. In common with us all, they have
strong hopes from the boats, though the continued arrival of the
barbarians, who are constantly coming into their camp, has helped to
render them a little more conscious of