Once more they began the weary work of bailing,
and in spite of all the fury of the wind and waves the little vessel
kept afloat.
At last the storm passed. Once more the fainting wanderers righted
their vessel, and turned the prow towards the shores of France.
But three days passed, and no land was seen, and they became more
despairing than before.
For now the last grain of corn was eaten, the last drop of water
drunk. Mad with thirst, sick with hunger, the men strained their
weary eyes over the rolling waste of waters. No land was in sight.
Then a terrible thought crept into one mind after another. In a low
hoarse whisper one man and then another spoke out his thought-that
one man should die for his fellows.
So deep were they sunk in woe that all were of one mind. So lots
were cast, and the man upon whom the lot fell was killed.
These tortured wayfarers had become cannibals.
Kept alive in this terrible fashion the men sailed on, and
at length a faint grey streak appeared on the horizon. It was the
long-looked-for shore of France. But the joy was too great for
their over-strained minds. The sight of land seemed to rob them of
all power of thought or action. With salvation in sight they let
the little vessel drift aimlessly this way and that.
While they thus drifted aimlessly a white sail hove in sight, and
an English vessel bore down upon them.
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