"Gone where we've all got to go some day, my lord--down, down, down," said the giant. "Posted missing Tuesday night." He had folded his arms and was leaning up against the side, moody as the devil. "For some it makes a change; for others it don't. I'm one of the last sort. It's all stale to me. I live there--down, down, down." He yawned with creaking jaws. Nelson stared at him, then turned to the boy. "And may I ask what you're doing here, Mr. Carvell?" "He said he had despatches for you, my lord," interrupted the giant languidly. "Don't see em myself." Kit's swift mind leapt at the fellow's mistake. Swift as he was, there was one present swifter--the man who in a flashing moment had won the day at St. Vincent. Nelson swept round on the giant. _"He said--he had--despatches--for me?_ You just told me he wanted brandy. How d'you account for that?" The stillness before the storm was never so appalling as that calm. In all the world only the giant's slow eyelids seemed to stir. The boy felt lightning in the air: he felt it in his heart. Dark remained unmoved. He lolled against the bulwark, legs crossed. It was scarcely respectful to the great seaman who stood before him; but the man seemed a law to himself. His chin dropped, his arms folded, those glimmering eyes of his never lifted from his feet. "I don't account for it, my lord," came the deep voice. "I can't account for myself--much less for my lies." Far down in those strange eyes Kit caught a gleam. Was it humour?--was it anguish?--what was it? He did not know. The man baffled him. He was groping in the dark and finding--darkness. He was at war with this man, war to the death; and yet, yet, yet, he felt they had something in common. What was it?--a kindred soul?--who should say? For a long minute Nelson gazed gravely at the other. "You're mighty strange, Mr. Dark," he said at last. The man nodded and nodded. "I'm mighty dark, Mr. Strange," he said--"mighty dark." III Nelson turned to the boy. "Come below," he said. "_My lord_," came a voice as out of a fog. Nelson turned. The giant was following them at a panther-prowl. As Kit saw him a phrase from the Old Book flashed to his mind--_the Body of this Death_. Only the eyes lived; abysms through which the boy gazed down to behold the last nicker of a drowning soul. It was not quite out, that gallant little light. Down there in the tumult of dark waters it fought for life despairingly. Without, the man was black and white and strangely still. Within, God and Devil were at battle. And the Devil was winning. The giant prowled across the deck, kneading his hands. "_Can I have a word with your lordship?_" The voice was clogged and husky as the voice of one dead for centuries. "By all means," briskly. "_Alone, my lord?_" "Certainly. Here?" The man rolled his eyes up at Kit. The boy's knees gave. He almost fainted. The soul flickered its last before his eyes. The man was dark forever.