The only answer was an ominous shake of the head and a significant rubbing of the edge of the doctor’s hand across the waist-line of the captain’s back. Captain Joe nodded his head; he knew,—the spine was broken. The passing of a spirit is a sacred and momentous thing, an impressive spectacle even to rough men who have seen it so often. One by one the watchers on the scow withdrew. Captain Joe and the doctor remained beside the bed; Caleb stood a few feet away, leaning against the mast, the full glow of the lantern shedding a warm light over his big frame and throwing his face into shadow. What wild, turbulent thoughts surged through his brain no one knew but himself. Beads of sweat had trickled down his face, and he loosened his collar to breathe the better. Presently the captain sank on his knee again beside the mattress. His face had the firm, determined expression of one whose mind has been made up on some line of action that has engrossed his thoughts. He put his mouth close to the sufferer’s ear. “It’s me, Billy,—Cap’n Joe. Do ye know me?” The eyes opened slowly and fastened themselves for an instant upon the captain’s face. A dull gleam of recognition stirred in their glassy depths; then the lids closed wearily. The glimpse of Lacey’s mind was but momentary, yet to the captain it was unmistakable. The brain was still alert. He leaned back and beckoned to Caleb. “Come over ’ere,” he said in a low whisper, “an’ git down close to 'im. He ain’t got long ter live. Don’t think o’ what he done to you; git that out o’ yer head; think o’ where he’s a-goin’. Don’t let him go with that on yer mind; it ain’t decent, an’ it’ll haunt ye. Git down close to ’im, an’ tell 'im ye ain’t got nothin’ agin 'im; do it for me, Caleb. Ye won’t never regret it.” The diver knelt in a passive, listless way, as one kneels in a church to the sound of an altar bell. The flame of the lantern fell on his face and shaggy beard, lighting up the earnest, thoughtful eyes and tightly pressed lips. “Pull yerself together, Billy, jes’ once fur me,” said Captain Joe in a half-coaxing voice. “It’s Caleb bendin’ over ye; he wants to tell ye somethin’.” The sunken, shriveled lids parted quickly, and the eyes rested for a moment on the diver’s face. The lips moved, as if the man were about to speak. But no words came. Over the cheeks and nose there passed a convulsive twitching,—the neck stiffened, the head straightened back upon the pillow. Then the jaw fell. “He’s dead,” said the doctor, laying his hand over the man’s heart. Captain Joe drew the blanket over the dead face, rose from his knees, and, with his arm in Caleb’s, left the scow and walked slowly toward the yacht. The doctor gathered up his remedies, gave some directions to the watchman, and joined Mrs. Leroy and the ladies on the lawn. Only the watchman on the scow was left, and the silent stars,—stern, unflinching, pitiless, like the eyes of many judges.