The two sailors hesitated. They joined their comrades. A low whispered conversation ensued. He who had been called Forrest stepped forward, and scratching off his tarpaulin, twisted it in his hands. "Well, what is it, Forrest?" asked the captain. "Please your honour, if so be as I may make bold, we've had a run of ill luck of late." "I know that, none better; but what has that got to do with you?" "The gentleman has lost the number of his mess, d'ye see, and it's an onlucky thing to begin a new voyage with a corpse aboard." "Ay, ay, Captain Weber," chimed in the rest, "we dare not set sail on yonder sticks with never a keel beneath our feet, and only a rag of canvas for sail, and that, too, with a corpse aboard." The group of men were standing at the gangway, and the captain turned to them, speaking in a loud voice. "Your duty, Forrest, is to obey my orders. The ship is sinking under our feet, but while a stick of her remains floating they shall be obeyed. Do your duty." The men turned, but seemed mutinous, and once more the muttered conversation began, when, gliding down the ladder, Isabel stood among them. She had heard what passed. "I was wrong, Enrico; tell these brave men I was wrong. My father could not have a nobler coffin than this. Speak to them, Enrico." Hughes did so, and a hearty cheer was given by the crew. "And now," said Captain Weber, greatly relieved, "we must leave the poor old brig. Are you ready?" "I would say good bye to my father, Enrico," murmured Isabel; "have we time?" The three entered the little cabin, the missionary having joined them, and they stood for the last time by the side of the dead. A lamp burned feebly, lighting up dimly the small bed where the body lay. The grey hairs were carefully combed out, the eyes were closed, for a daughter's hands had been busy there. The features wore a composed, but haughty look, and one or two deep stains alone told of the violent nature of his death. Isabel sobbed bitterly, while the missionary prayed. The door opened, and Captain Weber entered. Stooping over the dead form, Isabel imprinted one long kiss on the cold lips, and, in an agony of grief, cast herself into the soldier's arms. "Enrico,--thou alone art left to me," she sobbed.