Now that the fight was over and his ship taken, poor Van Halst began to show signs of the stress and strain of the engagement; he gradually turned ghastly pale; his lips quivered from time to time to such an extent that, for the few seconds during which the paroxysm lasted, he was scarcely able to articulate.  He staggered as he stood talking to us, and at length Percival, who could ill afford to waste time in conversation, gently led him into the handsome cabin under the poop, deposited him on a sofa, found a decanter of brandy and gave him a good stiff dose to revive him, and left him there, with a kindly injunction that he was not to attempt to move until he, Percival, returned.