JANUARY 5 and 6.—The whole scene made a deep impression on our minds, and Owen's speech coming as a sort of climax¹, brought before us our misery² with a force that was well-nigh overwhelming.  
As soon as I recovered my composure, I did not forget to thank Andre
Letourneur for the act of intervention³ that had saved my life.
"Do you thank me for that, Mr. Kazallon?" he said; "it has only served to prolong your misery."
 
"Never mind, M. Letourneur," said Miss Herbey; "you did your duty."
 
Enfeebled and emaciated⁴ as the young girl is, her sense of duty never deserts her; and although her torn and bedraggled garments float dejectedly about her body, she never utters a word of complaint, and never loses courage.
 
"Mr. Kazallon," she said to me, "do you think we are fated to die of hunger?"
 
"Yes, Miss Herbey, I do," I replied, in a hard, cold tone.
 
"How long do you suppose we have to live?" she asked again.
 
"I cannot say; perhaps we shall linger on longer than we imagine."
 
"The strongest constitutions suffer the most, do they not?" she said.
 
"Yes; but they have one consolation—they die the soonest," I replied, coldly.
 
Had every spark of humanity died out of my breast, that I thus brought the girl face to face with the terrible truth, without a word of hope or comfort? The eyes of Andre and his father, dilated⁵ with hunger, were fixed⁶ upon me, and I saw reproach and astonishment⁷ written in their faces.
 
Afterward⁸, when we were quite alone, Miss Herbey asked me if I would grant her a favor.
 
"Certainly, Miss Herbey; anything you like to ask," I replied; and this time my manner was kinder and more genial⁹.
 
"Mr. Kazallon," she said, "I am weaker than you, and shall probably die first. Promise me that, if I do, you will throw me into the sea!"
 
"Oh, Miss Herbey," I began, "it was very wrong of me to speak to you as
I did!"
"No, no," she replied, half smiling; "you were quite right. But it is a weakness of mine; I don't mind what they do with me as long as I am alive, but when I am dead—" She stopped and shuddered¹⁰. "Oh, promise me that you will throw me into the sea!"
 
I gave her the melancholy¹¹ promise, which she acknowledged by pressing my hand feebly with her emaciated fingers.
 
Another night passed away. At times my sufferings were so intense that cries of agony involuntarily escaped my lips; then I became calmer, and sank into a kind of lethargy. When I awoke, I was surprised to find my companions still alive.
 
The one of our party who seems to bear his privations the best is Hobart the steward¹², a man with whom hitherto I have had very little to do. He is small, with a fawning¹³ expression remarkable¹⁴ for its indecision, and has a smile which is incessantly¹⁵ playing round his lips; he goes about with his eyes half closed, as though he wished to conceal¹⁶ his thoughts, and there is something altogether false and hypocritical about his whole demeanor¹⁷. I cannot say that he bears his privations without a

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