"I'm nobody, sir, only a common man afore the mast, so it's like impidence for me to offer to share the responsibility with a young gent like you. But being half as old again, I may say I know a little of what a man ought to do in a case like this; and I say that as you're now in command, sir, it's your duty to us, as well as to the dead." "No, no," groaned Mark. "We may be overtaken by the ship at any time." "Look here; it's of no use for you to shrink from it. Recollect where we are. You must." But still Mark shook his head. "It ain't as if we could do him any good, sir." "But without Christian burial, Tom Fillot." "He warn't a Christian, sir," said the sailor, slowly. "I'm only an ignorant man, but I've heerd say that you were a parson's son, sir, and know what's right to do at such a time. Mr Vandean, sir, you must." Mark heaved a sigh, rose in the boat, and looked round him, trying to pierce the gloom in search of help out of his difficulty; but the moon was hidden by a black cloud, and look which way he would there was naught but the thick darkness hemming him in. With a piteous sigh he turned back to where the sailor sat waiting, made a sign, and then sank upon his knees in the bottom of the boat, feeling for the first few moments utterly alone. The next minute the feeling of loneliness had passed away, and firm and strong at heart, he raised his head, and made a fresh sign to his companion, who had followed his example, and who now rose and stepped over to the very stern of the boat, to stand with his back to his young officer. Then as he bent down it seemed to Mark as if the darkness had grown more profound, till there was a faint rustling noise, and a soft plunge in the black water, followed by a faint rippling whisper against the sides. Directly after the moon appeared from behind the thick mass of clouds and shed a path of silver over the sea, till it flooded the part where the cutter lay; and as Mark Vandean knelt there, he saw Tom Fillot standing before him with the Union Jack in his hand. CHAPTER EIGHT. "WILL MORNING NEVER COME?" For the full space of an hour there was utter silence in the boat, where the lieutenant and his stricken crew lay as in a stupor. The black clouds had rolled away, and the calm sea was bathed in silvery light. The air was warm, but, by comparison with the scorching day, the temperature was delicious. Tom Fillot had folded up the flag and laid it back in the locker, after which he had seated himself to wait for orders. At last, after quite an effort, Mark roused himself from his musings, and turned to his companion in distress. "Tom," he said, "what ought I to do?" "Nothing, sir," said the man, promptly. "There ain't nothing you can. Someone else must do whatever is to be done for us. We've got to wait." "But could we row back to the port?" "Without biscuit or water, sir, and with that sun sure to come up to-morrow ready to 'most scorch out our brains. What do you think?"