With these thoughts in his mind, and in obedience to Sanford’s request, Captain Joe walked toward the sufferer, nodded to the Medford doctor sitting beside him, picked up the lantern which hung behind the man’s head, and turned the light full on the pale face. Caleb stood at one side talking with the captain of the scow. “He ain’t no dago,” said Captain Joe, as he turned to the doctor. “Looks to me like one o’ them young fellers what’s”—He stopped abruptly. Something about the injured man attracted him. He dropped on one knee beside the bed, pushed back the matted hair from the man’s forehead, and examined the skin carefully. For some moments he remained silent, scanning every line in the face. Then he rose to his feet, folded his arms across his chest, his eyes still fastened on the sufferer, and said slowly and thoughtfully to himself,— “Well, I’m damned!” The doctor bent his head in expectation, eager to hear the captain’s next words, but the captain was too absorbed to notice the gesture. For some minutes he continued looking at the dying man. “Come here, Caleb!” he called, beckoning to the diver. “Hold the lantern close. Who’s that?” His voice sank almost to a whisper. “Look in his face.” “I don’t know, cap’n; I never see him afore.” At the sound of the voices the head on the pillow turned, and the man half opened his eyes, and groaned heavily. He was evidently in great pain,—too great for the opiates wholly to deaden. “Look agin, Caleb; see that scar on his cheek; that’s where the Screamer hit ’im. That’s Bill Lacey.” Caleb caught up the lantern as Captain Joe had done, and turned the light full on the dying man’s face. Slowly and carefully he examined every feature,—the broad forehead, deep-sunk eyes, short, curly hair about the temples, and the mustache and close-trimmed beard, which had been worn as a disguise, no doubt, along with his new name of Williams. In the same searching way his eye passed over the broad shoulders and slender, supple body outlined under the clinging blanket, and so on down to the small, well-shaped feet that the kneeling maid was warming. “It’s him,” he said quietly, stepping back to the mast, and folding his arms behind his back, while his eyes were fixed on the drawn face. During this exhaustive search Captain Joe followed every expression that swept over the diver’s face. How would the death of this man affect Betty? With an absorbed air, the captain picked up an empty nail-keg, and crossing the deck sat down beside the mattress, his hands on his knees, watching the sufferer. As he looked at the twitching muscles of the face and the fading color, the bitterness cherished for months against this man faded away. He saw only the punishment that had come, its swiftness and its sureness. Then another face came before him,—a smaller one, with large and pleading eyes. “Ain’t no chance for him, I s’pose?” he said to the doctor in a low tone.