TH O U G H T S FOR
UN SAV ED PEOPLE
THE CRIMSON CURTAIN We were a large party, invited by the captain of a w arship lying in th e h a r bour of an English sea-coast city, to have fru it and ices on th e deck, and then inspect the ship. L ater th ere were to be tea and music in th e saloon. It was all very pleasant; and we were thoroughly enjoying our visit, when the Captain suggested a look a t th e cabin, a fte r which we were to have tea in th e saloon. He first showed us his own cabin, which was roomy and com fortable and very well fu rn ish ed ; its walls covered w ith photographs and draw ings of every kind. One picture in a handsome g ilt'fram e, was covered w ith a crim son silk curtain. This attracted my atten tion , and I ex claimed impulsively, “Oh, w hat is th a t p ictu re?” The next in stan t I was intensely sorry th a t I had spoken, for it was evidently not to be seen. No notice was tak en of my exclamation, and then we passed on into ano th er cabin. A fterw ards when we were sitting in th e saloon, the Captain b rough t his ch air over beside mine, and said to me in a low voice, “You noticed my curtained picture ju st now.” Of course I fervently apologized for my careless rem ark, b u t he said, “ I should like to show it to you. W ill you come back w ith me to the cabin? I t will in te rest you, I feel sure. We retu rn ed to th e cabin, and afte r he had sh u t th e door, he drew aside th e curtain, and revealed th e little picture. There I saw a ship in flames. It was in a harbour, not very far from other ships and th e shore. The flames were
raging, th e m asts were falling. The stern was tow ard us, and over th e stern th ere hung a rope. On th a t rope was th e figure of a man. There he hung suspended between fire and w ater. The flames were vividly reflected in the ocean beneath. The whole p icture was very realistic, th e colouring was intense. We both looked a t it in silence for a moment. Then the Captain pu t his finger on the . clinging figure and said, “T h at was myself.” And he told me th is story. He said th a t his ship h ad , caught fire while they were nearing th e land. The flames were raging very fiercely. All th e boats were lowered, and all th e crew had got off safely. He had rem ained a t his post, the la st boat being over-crowded. Then, he said, th e bu rn ing h eat drove him backwards, un til he reached th e stern, when as a last resource, he threw a rope over th e edge, and let him self down by it. There he remained in th a t critical position, for he knew not how long. “Between life and d eath ,” he said, “ fire and w ater,— between tim e and eternity. All my past life came back to my m ind . . . everything.” Then he paused, as though th e memories were intensely real. “ I suppose I became unconscious,” he continued, “ for I rem ember nothing more un til I awoke one day finding my self in a small room, w ith whitewashed walls.” P resently a man came in w ith the coast-guard uniform on. “W here am I ? ” I asked. “ In one of th e Coast-guard houses, he said, “ on th e English shore. You have been very ill. F o r some tim e you have lain here. We saw you hanging from a rope, over th e side of th a t burn-
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