I stood looking at Greaves. Beside me crouched Galloon. Every now and again the dog uttered a sort of low, sobbing howl. How did he know that his master was dead? _I_ can’t tell. He crouched beside me, I say, weeping in his way, and I dare swear that he better knew the captain was dead than I, who indeed guessed him dead by his looks, though I would not have buried him in that hour for a million. I drew the head of the blanket over the poor man’s face, and went to the door, with a call to Galloon to follow. The dog did not stir. “Come,” cried I, and approached him. He growled fiercely, and I saw danger in his eye. “Well, poor beast,” said I in my heart, “you shall watch and mourn in your fashion;” and I came away, and sat down at the cabin table, and leaned my head upon my hand to let pass an oppression of tears that had visited my throat and was darkening my sight. I had saved his life, and he mine; we had spent many weeks together, exchanged many thoughts, together paced out many a long hour of the day and night; he had been my friend, shipmate, messmate, and I knew not how warm was my love for him until now. The sea brings men close together, and there is the companionship of peril and a sense of isolation and remoteness that is binding. A man is missed at sea as he never can be missed ashore. Ashore is a vast field filled with distractions for the mind: the greatest ship is but a speck on the deep; you may walk the length of her, and descend to the depth of her in a few minutes, and over the side is the monotony of heaven and water, thrusting the spirit back upon its imprisonment of bulwarks, and compelling the mind to perpetual consideration of all the life that is contained within the narrow walls of timber. I raised my head and found the lady Aurora sitting opposite me. She may have come from her cabin quietly or not; her movements were not to have been heard amid the straining sounds of that tossing interior. “The poor captain is dead,” said she. “Yes,” I answered. “Blessed Virgin, he has suffered. He is now at peace,” said she, partly in English, partly in Spanish. “Were you with him when he died?” I called to the boy, who stood at the foot of the companion steps, white and grinning. “Yes, master.” “Come here, my lad. Did he speak before he died?” “Master, he lifted up his right hand and sung out ‘from under!’ then rattled.” “How did you know he was dead?” “I saw father die, master, and last voyage the cook died, and I saw him go.” Miss Aurora looked as if she would have me interpret Greaves’ dying exclamation. I drained a tumbler of rum-and-water to cheer me, and going on deck found Yan Bol standing beside the companion way waiting. “Vhas der captain deadt?” said he. “He is dead,” I answered. “Und vhat vas to become of her share, Mr. Fielding?” “He’ll not be cold for some hours, and he keeps his share till we bury him.”