“Ho! Was that the way Antonio looked at it? That shows he ’ad feelin’s. To resoom. Without anyone givin’ us orders to that effect, we began to creep about an’ whisper. Things got stiller and stiller, till they was as still as—mushrooms! Then the bugler let off the ‘Dead March’ from the upper bridge. He done it to cover the remarks of a cock-bird bein’ killed forrard, but it came out paralysin’ in its _tout ensemble_. You never heard the ‘Dead March’ on a bugle? Then the pipes went twitterin’ for both watches to attend public execution, an’ we came up like so many ghosts, the ’ole ship’s company. Why, Mucky ’Arcourt, one o’ our boys, was that took in he give tongue like a beagle-pup, an’ was properly kicked down the ladder for so doin’. Well, there we lay—engines stopped, rollin’ to the swell, all dark, yards cock-billed, an’ that merry tune yowlin’ from the upper bridge. We fell in on the foc’sle, leavin’ a large open space by the capstan, where our sail-maker was sittin’ sewin’ broken firebars into the foot of an old ’ammick. ’E looked like a corpse, an’ Mucky had another fit o’ hysterics, an’ you could ’ear us breathin’ ’ard. It beat anythin’ in the theatrical line that even us _Archimandrites_ had done—an’ we was the ship you could trust. Then come the doctor an’ lit a red lamp which he used for his photographic muckin’s, an’ chocked it on the capstan. That was finally gashly! “Then come twelve Marines guardin’ Glass ’ere. You wouldn’t think to see ’im what a gratooitous an’ aboundin’ terror he was that evenin’. ’E was in a white shirt ’e’d stole from Cockburn, an’ his regulation trousers, barefooted. ’E’d pipe-clayed ’is ’ands an’ face an’ feet an’ as much of his chest as the openin’ of his shirt showed. ’E marched under escort with a firm an’ undeviatin’ step to the capstan, an’ came to attention. The old man reinforced by an extra strong split—his seventeenth, an’ ’e didn’t throw _that_ down the ventilator—come up on the bridge an’ stood like a image. ’Op, ’oo was with ’im, says that ’e heard Antonio’s teeth singin’, not chatterin’—singin’ like funnel-stays in a typhoon. Yes, a moanin’ æolian harp, ’Op said. “‘When you are ready, Sir, drop your ’andkerchief,’ Number One whispers. “‘Good Lord!’ says the old man, with a jump. ‘Eh! What? What a sight! What a sight!’ an’ he stood drinkin’ it in, I suppose, for quite two minutes. “Glass never says a word. ’E shoved aside an ’andkerchief which the sub-lootenant proffered ’im to bind ’is eyes with—quiet an’ collected; an’ if we ’adn’t been feelin’ so very much as we did feel, his gestures would ’ave brought down the ’ouse.” “I can’t open my eyes, or I’ll be sick,” said the Marine with appalling clearness. “I’m pretty far gone—I know it—but there wasn’t anyone could ’ave beaten Edwardo Glass, R.M.L.I., that time. Why, I scared myself nearly into the ’orrors. Go on, Pye. Glass is in support—as ever.”