Derry's impetuous charge was too much for the soldiers, many of them enfeebled by the climate of India, and going home to recruit in their native breezes. Over the deck swept Derry and his band like a fierce hurricane, which naught can stay or withstand. A shout of victory went up from the Molly, a shout which Derry's excited men sent back over the water in a deafening reply. The East Indiaman was won; her crew were prisoners; her cargo the prize of the Molly. Where was Blair Robertson amid the general triumph? This was Derry Duck's first question, as his returning footsteps again trod the deck of the privateer. Alone in the deserted cabin, Derry found what was more precious to him now than his share in the glory or the spoils of the recent fight. The rough sailor asked no questions of the fainting lad. Tearing open Blair's garments, he found at once the wound, and with ready skill and unwavering firmness his sharp knife did the surgeon's duty. The bullet was forced out by Derry's hard fingers, and his rough hands tied the bandage with a touching attempt at tenderness. Blair uttered no murmur. His lips moved gently, but they whispered only words befitting the sinner passing into the presence of his God. Derry caught the low whisper, and understood its meaning. "I can't let you go. What! going? Oh my lad!" and Derry Duck's hard, blood-marked face was suddenly wet with tears. CHAPTER XVIII. WAGES. The East Indiaman was too important a prize to be trusted to any other than the skilful sailor and brave officer, Derry Duck. He was at once ordered to prepare to take her into an American port, with all due formalities. Derry's sea-chest contained more than his scanty wardrobe, his golden gains during this long cruise were garnered there. Yet he trusted it to the hands of unscrupulous men, while his own arms found a more welcome burden. Tenderly as a mother bears her sleeping infant, Derry clasped a slender figure to his rough bosom, and would suffer no one to give him aid in his office of love. There was a gentle pulsation in the heart so near to his. There was a growing warmth in the form which was so precious to the mate of the Molly. Blair was still alive, and Derry would allow no duty to interfere with the sacred privilege of caring for the wounded youth, and bearing him home, living or dead, to his mother. On a couch of Indian luxury Derry laid the prostrate figure of Blair Robertson, and as he turned to leave the cabin, the face of the once hardened tar was softened into womanly gentleness as he said, "God help him, and bring him to, sound and well." The excessive faintness and exhaustion of the wound had indeed seemed to Blair like the lingering, reluctant parting of soul and body; and he might well have adopted the words of that hymn, honored by the murmured breathings of many a dying saint: