Bottle-Jack tried to laugh. “It’s a flea-bite, my lady,” said he, setting his teeth to conceal the pain he suffered. “’Tis but a poke in the side after all, though them black beggars does grind their spear-heads to an edge like a razor. It’s betwixt wind and water, d’ye see, marm, if I may be so bold, and past caulking, in my opinion. I’m a-fillin’ fast, that’s where it is, askin’ your pardon again for naming it to a lady like you.” She partly understood him, and for the first time to-night the tears came into her eyes. They did her good. They seemed to clear her faculties and cool her brain. She examined the old man’s hurt, after no small resistance on his part, and found a deep wound between his ribs, which even her experience warned her must be mortal. She stanched it as well as she could, tearing up the lace and other trimmings of her dress to form a temporary bandage. Then she bent down to the lagoon to dip her coroneted handkerchief in water and lay it across his brow, while she supported his sinking frame upon her knees. He looked in her face with a puzzled, wandering gaze, like a man in a dream. The vision seemed so unreal, so impossible, so unlike anything he had ever seen before, Bottle-Jack began to think he had reached Fiddler’s Green at last. The minutes dragged slowly on. The sky became darker, the breeze colder, and the strangely matched pair continued in the same position on the brink of the white lagoon, the Marquise dipping her handkerchief at short intervals, and moistening the sailor’s mouth. It was all she could do for him, and like a faithful old dog, wounded to the death, he could only thank her with his eyes. More than once she thought he was gone, but as moment after moment crept by, so sad, so slow, she knew he was still alive. Would it never be day? She could scarcely see him now, though his heavy head rested on her knees, though her hand with the moistened handkerchief was laid on his very lips. At last the breeze freshened, sighing audibly through the tree-tops, which were soon dimly seen swaying to and fro against a pale streak of sky on the horizon. Bottle-Jack started and sat up. “Stand by!” he exclaimed, looking wildly round. “You in the fore-chains! Keep you axe ready to cut away when she rounds to. Easy, lads! She’ll weather it now, and I’ll go below and turn in.” Then he laid his head once more on Madame de Montmirail’s knees, like a child who turns round to go to sleep.