NIGHT of December 4.—Curtis caught young Letourneur again in his arms, and, running with him across the flooded deck, deposited him safely in the starboard shrouds¹, whither his father and I climbed up beside him.  
I now had time to look about me. The night was not very dark, and I could see that Curtis had returned to his post upon the poop; while in the extreme aft near the taffrail, which was still above water, I could distinguish the forms of Mr. and Mrs. Kear, Miss Herbey, and Mr. Falsten. The lieutenant³ and the boatswain were on the far end of the forecastle; the remainder of the crew in the shrouds and top-masts.
 
By the assistance of his father, who carefully guided his feet up the rigging, Andre was hoisted⁴ into the main-top. Mrs. Kear could not be induced to join him in his elevated position, in spite of being told that if the wind were to freshen she would inevitably⁵ be washed overboard by the waves; nothing could induce her to listen to remonstrances⁶, and she insisted upon remaining on the poop—Miss Herbey, of course, staying by her side.
 
As soon as the captain saw the Chancellor⁷ was no longer sinking, he set to work to take down all the sails—yards and all—and the top-gallants, in the hope that by removing everything that could compromise the equilibrium⁸ of the ship he might diminish the chance of her capsizing altogether.
 
"But may she not founder⁹ at any moment?" I said to Curtis, when I had joined him for a while upon the poop.
 
"Everything depends upon the weather," he replied, in his calmest manner; "that, of course, may change at any hour. One thing, however, is certain, the Chancellor preserves her equilibrium for the present."
 
"But do you mean to say," I further asked, "that she can sail with two feet of water over her deck?"
 
"No, Mr. Kazallon, she can't sail, but she can drift with the wind; and if the wind remains¹⁰ in its present quarter, in the course of a few days we might possibly sight the coast. Besides, we shall have our raft as a last resource; in a few hours it will be ready, and at daybreak we can embark¹¹."
 
"You have not, then," I added, "abandoned all hope even yet?" I marveled at his composure.
 
"While there's life there's hope, you know, Mr. Kazallon; out of a hundred chances, ninety-nine may be against us, but perhaps the odd one may be in our favor. Besides, I believe that our case is not without precedent¹². In the year 1795, a three-master, the Juno, was precisely¹³ in the same half-sunk, water-logged condition as ourselves; and yet, with her passengers and crew clinging to her top-masts, she drifted for twenty days, until she came in sight of land, when those who had survived the deprivation¹⁴ and fatigue¹⁵ were saved. So let us not despair; let us hold on to the hope that the survivors

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