his suicidal contemplations, the raven, soaring through the air on
restless wings, croaking his melancholy complaints were not calculated
to add to the cheerfulness of the scene.

[ILLUSTRATION: He sat down on a broken mast.]

It was evident that even the inhabitants of Duck Island were not happy
in its possession and looked forward with pleasure to the season of
migration.

The boat touched the north shore, and Lieutenant Matson jumped out in
mud up to his knees, frightening some wild fowls which flew screaming
away. The Englishman gave vent to some strong language, and desired to
know if there was not a better landing place. Terrence assured him there
was not, and complained that ducks never sought a "dacint place" for
their habitation. Nothing but the glorious reflection that he was making
himself a martyr for Morgianna's sake could have induced the officer to
take the torches and wade to the low bushes, where he was instructed to
make a light and wait until his companion rowed around the island and
drove the ducks in great flocks to the light, which he assured the
Briton would attract them, and they would fall at his feet as if begging
to be bagged.

Slowly the officer waded through the dismal marsh to the higher land,
where grew the low bushes, and by the use of his tinder box kindled a
light and, wrapping his boat cloak about him, sat down on a broken mast,
which some storm had driven to the highest part of the island.

The minutes passed on, and neither the Irishman nor the expected flock
of birds came. Minutes grew into hours, and only the sobbing waves and