When the wound had been dressed, during which Mr Lawrence kept his eyes shut and his teeth set--he was in mortal pain--the Admiral asked him gently if he suffered much. Mr Lawrence opened his eyes and looked at his father, and smiled slightly. Faint as the smile was, mingled as it was with the distortion of anguish, it had in it the charm of a manly beauty which only the decay of the grave could destroy, and in it also were remorse and gratitude. His lips parted in the words, "No, sir," and again his eyes closed. Captain Acton, the surgeon, and Mr Fellowes went into the cabin, leaving the Admiral and his son to themselves. "Will he live?" asked Captain Acton. "I don't see why he shouldn't, sir; the wound is not mortal. But he will require to be very carefully nursed," answered the surgeon, with the coolness and manner of indifference which are a characteristic of the official medical man who is unburdened with stimulating considerations of practice and fees. "There'll not be much nursing to be got out of this shipful of rough sailors," said Mr Fellowes. "What a fine, manly, gallant young officer was lost to the Service in Walter Lawrence! What made him shoot himself?" "Do you think, sir, that he could with safety be transferred to the _Aurora_?" asked Captain Acton, with an appearance of anxiety that seemed to render his evasion of Mr Fellowes' question undesigned. "We could nurse him there. We are a comfortable little ship, better found--certainly in the way of the cabin--than this vessel." The three on this hint fell into a brief and earnest conversation, and in a few minutes Sir William was called to participate in the discussion and deliver his views, whilst the surgeon re-entered the berth to consider afresh the condition of the patient. Meanwhile Lucy Acton watched and waited on the quarterdeck of the _Aurora_. The hour was about half-past four. The breeze was sinking with the sun; it still blew with weight enough to keep the sails of the three ships steady. But the dance of the sea was growing languid, the rolling foam of the breaking head was wanting in brilliance of flash and friskiness of somersault; the blue of the deep was darkening, and spread in violet shot with light blue and purple gleams to the margin of the reflected glory of the sun where the lines of light steeped into the richer colour.