Then, later, they set forth to go the rounds of the ship and find those who had not replied, the captain going first, accompanied by a midshipman with a lanthorn. And many were found dead at their posts before, at last, they came to Lewis Granger. He was lying upon his side by the middle-deck port-sills with his face turned downwards, while all around and beneath where his head lay was a great pool of blood--his own and others--that slowly drained towards the scuppers and so ran out to mingle with the heaving waves beneath. "Is he dead?" asked Sir Geoffrey, gazing down at him while the midshipman held the lanthorn so that they could see his face. "Is he dead?" And as he spoke there were tears in his voice. Was this to be the end of all, he thought; the end of the man's hopes for a better life, the end of his unchanging, unchangable love for the woman who, even now, was free? "He is not dead, sir," the boatswain answered, kneeling by Granger's side and supporting his head above his own knee, "but he is dying; must surely die. Observe the great wound in his throat." "Granger," said Geoffrey, kneeling by his side, "Granger--do you know me?" Then the dying man opened his eyes and looked up at the other, who by that glance understood that he did know him. "Shall I tell him?" thought Geoffrey. "Shall I tell him now, at the last moment? Will it make him happier? What is best to do?" "He is going, sir," the boatswain whispered, "he is going. His heart is getting more feeble, growing fainter." "Granger," then whispered Barry, "can you hear me--understand me? Listen, ah! listen, and so part happily. She whom you love is free--free now to come to you. Does that in truth make you happier?" "It--is--too--late," the dying man muttered hoarsely, for the last time! His head lay even heavier now than before upon the rough sailor's knee; while the man, with a glance at his captain, put up his hand and removed the cap he wore--he being followed in the action by all present. Yet, still, Granger was not quite dead; still some life was left in the strong, suffering heart. Once again he spoke. "Tell her," he whispered, as Geoffrey bent his ear, "that--I--died--blessing--loving her--to--the--last. Tell her--I never loved but one; and that--my first--love was my last. Also--in your mercy--leave her picture upon my--breast--where it has always lain since--I lost--her." THE END. End of Project Gutenberg's Fortune's My Foe, by John Bloundelle-Burton