“What is wrong?” said I, in a voice of awe, for even as the lad had called, my thoughts were busy with the dying man, and my heart heavy with sadness. “The captain’s very bad to-night, master.” This was the third day Greaves had kept his berth without attempting or expressing a wish to leave it. During these days he had been more than usually rambling and incoherent, insomuch that my visits had been brief because there was nothing to be said. I had looked in upon him merely to satisfy myself on his condition. I knew not how I should find him now, and sat me down on a chest beside his bunk. Galloon lay on the deck. The lamp gave a strong light; Greaves saw me and I him very plain. There was an intelligence in his looks that had been wanting--his countenance was knitted into its old expression of mind, as though by an effort of the faculties. “D’ye know, Fielding, I fear that I am very ill?” said he in a weak voice. “You do not feel worse, I hope?” said I. “I don’t like my sensations. I don’t understand them. It has crossed my mind that I am dying.” “Ill you are and have been, captain; yet less ill to-night, it seems to me, than you were yesterday. God preserve you! What can I do? Here we are, out upon the wild sea, nothing but Spanish ports to make for; but say the word and I’ll head the brig for the port you shall name. We must forfeit our dollars, but your life stands first.” “It is too late,” he said. “For God’s sake don’t say that! Ought I to have sought help on the coast?” “It is too late,” he repeated, and sank into a silence that lasted a minute or two. “Have you believed that I am dying?” said he. “I have believed you ill--sometimes very ill.” “It will be hard to die here, all this way from home. The launch over the side makes a deep burial. I buried a man hereabouts last voyage, and---- How deep is it? Has he touched the bottom yet?--with a twenty-four pound shot at his heels too.” “Don’t think of such things.” “I am not afraid to die, but I wish there was a priest aboard--someone to help me to steady my thoughts. I believe in all that should make a man a good Christian. What’s the time?” “A little after eight, sir.” “What noise of hissing is that?” “Grampuses have been blowing out to larboard; some may have come alongside.” “Ay, me!” he cried. “There is the hand of the devil in this snatching away of my life _now_, when the days show brightly, and my head is full of plans of goodness. How about the money, Fielding?” “What money, sir?” “Mine, mine,” he exclaimed with irritation. “Yours you’ll keep and welcome, and don’t let the spending of it damn ye. Mine, I say. What’s to become of it? If I die, what’s to become of my money? Must it go to Tulp? By Isten, no, then!” he exclaimed, with a rather crazy laugh. “Have you no relations?” “Tulp’s no relation.” “Have you no relation whatever?” “None, I tell ye.” “Few men can say that,” said I doubtingly. “Fielding, I am dying, and I will leave my money to God.”