He spoke faintly, his appearance was very alarming; his eyes moved slowly and strangely. “Tell me your wishes? If I live they shall be carried out.” He repeated in a low voice that he would leave his money to God. “In what form can this be done?” said I, fearing that his mind was giving way again. “I will leave my money to the Church,” he answered. “What Church?” He made no answer. “What Church, Captain?” I repeated, bending my face to his. “Rome,” he answered. “In what religion did your mother die?” said I. His eyes ceased to wander, he gazed at me steadfastly; but as he was silent, I again asked him in what faith his mother had died. “She was a Protestant,” he answered; “she belonged to the Church of England.” “Leave your money to the Church in whose faith your mother sleeps. Should not a mother’s faith be the holiest of all to a child? Captain, there is no better faith than was your mother’s.” “Who talks to me of my mother?” said he. “She married Bartholomew Tulp. Well, she was a very good woman. She has gone to God. She was poor--she married for a home, and to help me, as I have often since believed. I will leave my money to her memory. What time is it?” I again told him the time. “How is the weather?” “A fine, quiet night.” “There is water in that can; give me a drink.” When he had drunk he asked me to lift the dog, that he might pat his head. He feebly, with a pale, thin hand, touched the ears of the poor beast; and as he did so, I thought of that time when I lay in a hammock, trembling and helpless, with a weakness as of death, and when he had lifted Galloon that I might kiss the dog that had saved my life. “Who has the watch?” “Bol, sir.” “Will you write for me, Fielding?” “Anything will I do for you.” I seated myself at the little table that was near his bunk. It was furnished with ink and quills. I opened a drawer and found paper, and waited for him to speak. “Tulp shall not have my money,” said he; “the old rogue is rich, and he has a noble share in what is below. Too much--too much. And yet it was his venture. Let me be reasonable. He shall not have one dollar of my money, by God! If I die, and the money goes home, he will take it. I would see him damned before he touched a dollar of my money. Hasn’t he enough?” “More than enough.” “I will leave the money to the memory of my mother. The thought comforts me. I was her only child--I left her very young; I was not to her as I should have been. Write, Fielding.” He dictated, but ramblingly, with so much of incoherence, indeed, breaking off to talk to himself, to ask the time, to whisper some sea adventure, which he would go half through with and then drop, that, even if my memory carried what he said, it would be mere silliness in the reading. However, his wish was to dictate a will, which was to be embodied in a very few sentences. So when he had made an end and lay still, I wrote as follows: