After scoring over my calmness in this graphic way he nodded wisely. If I had seen the sight, he assured me, I would never forget it as long as I lived. The weather was too bad to give the corpse a proper sea burial. So next day at dawn they took it up on the poop, covering its face with a bit of bunting; he read a short prayer, and then, just as it was, in its oilskins and long boots, they launched it amongst those mountainous seas that seemed ready every moment to swallow up the ship herself and the terrified lives on board of her. “That reefed foresail saved you,” I threw in. “Under God—it did,” he exclaimed fervently. “It was by a special mercy, I firmly believe, that it stood some of those hurricane squalls.” “It was the setting of that sail which—” I began. “God’s own hand in it,” he interrupted me. “Nothing less could have done it. I don’t mind telling you that I hardly dared give the order. It seemed impossible that we could touch anything without losing it, and then our last hope would have been gone.” The terror of that gale was on him yet. I let him go on for a bit, then said, casually—as if returning to a minor subject: “You were very anxious to give up your mate to the shore people, I believe?” He was. To the law. His obscure tenacity on that point had in it something incomprehensible and a little awful; something, as it were, mystical, quite apart from his anxiety that he should not be suspected of “countenancing any doings of that sort.” Seven-and-thirty virtuous years at sea, of which over twenty of immaculate command, and the last fifteen in the _Sephora_, seemed to have laid him under some pitiless obligation. “And you know,” he went on, groping shamefacedly amongst his feelings, “I did not engage that young fellow. His people had some interest with my owners. I was in a way forced to take him on. He looked very smart, very gentlemanly, and all that. But do you know—I never liked him, somehow. I am a plain man. You see, he wasn’t exactly the sort for the chief mate of a ship like the _Sephora_.” I had become so connected in thoughts and impressions with the secret sharer of my cabin that I felt as if I, personally, were being given to understand that I, too, was not the sort that would have done for the chief mate of a ship like the _Sephora_. I had no doubt of it in my mind. “Not at all the style of man. You understand,” he insisted, superfluously, looking hard at me. I smiled urbanely. He seemed at a loss for a while. “I suppose I must report a suicide.” “Beg pardon?” “Suicide! That’s what I’ll have to write to my owners directly I get in.” “Unless you manage to recover him before to-morrow,” I assented, dispassionately. . . “I mean, alive.” He mumbled something which I really did not catch, and I turned my ear to him in a puzzled manner. He fairly bawled: “The land—I say, the mainland is at least seven miles off my anchorage.” “About that.”