Two of them slipped from my trembling fingers; my eyes fell on the uppermost of the two. The address was in the handwriting of the good friend with whom Rothsay was sailing.
Just as I had been speaking of Rothsay, here was the news of him for which I had been waiting.
I opened the letter and read these words:
"There is, I fear, but little hope for our friend--unless this girl on whom he has set his heart can (by some lucky change of circumstances) become his wife. He has tried to master his weakness; but his own infatuation is too much for him. He is really and truly in a state of despair. Two evenings since--to give you a melancholy example of what I mean--I was in my cabin, when I heard the alarm of a man overboard. The man was Rothsay.