The capstan was manned, and worked to a merry tune that struck chill to the bereaved; yards were braced for casting, anchor hove, catted, and fished, sail was spread with amazing swiftness, the ship’s head dipped, and slowly and gracefully paid off towards the breakwater, and she stood out to sea under swiftly-swelling canvas and a light north-westerly breeze.

Staines only felt the motion:  his body was in the ship, his soul with his Rosa.  He gazed, he strained his eyes to see her eyes, as the ship glided from England and her.  While he was thus gazing and trembling all over, up came to him a smart second lieutenant, with a brilliant voice that struck him like a sword.  “Captain’s orders to show you berths; please choose for Lord Tadcaster and yourself.”

The man’s wild answer made the young officer stare.  “Oh, sir! not now—­try and do my duty when I have quite lost her—­my poor wife—­a child—­a mother—­there—­sir—­on the steps—­there!—­there!”

Now this officer always went to sea singing “Oh be joyful.”  But a strong man’s agony, who can make light of it?  It was a revelation to him; but he took it quickly.  The first thing he did, being a man of action, was to dash into his cabin, and come back with a short, powerful double glass.  “There!” said he roughly, but kindly, and shoved it into Staines’s hand.  He took it, stared at it stupidly, then used it, without a word of thanks, so wrapped was he in his anguish.

This glass prolonged the misery of that bitter hour.  When Rosa could no longer tell her husband from another, she felt he was really gone, and she threw her hands aloft, and clasped them above her head, with the wild abandon of a woman who could never again be a child; and Staines saw it, and a sharp sigh burst from him, and he saw her maid and others gather round her.  He saw the poor young thing led away, with her head all down, as he had never seen her before, and supported to the inn; and then he saw her no more.

His heart seemed to go out of his bosom in search of her, and leave nothing but a stone behind:  he hung over the taffrail like a dead thing.  A steady foot-fall slapped his ear.  He raised his white face and filmy eyes, and saw Lieutenant Fitzroy marching to and fro like a sentinel, keeping everybody away from the mourner, with the steady, resolute, business-like face of a man in whom sentiment is confined to action; its phrases and its flourishes being literally terra incognita to the honest fellow.

Staines staggered towards him, holding out both hands, and gasped out, “God bless you.  Hide me somewhere—­must not be seen so—­got duty to do—­Patient—­can’t do it yet—­one hour to draw my breath—­oh, my God, my God!—­one hour, sir.  Then do my duty, if I die—­as you would.”

Fitzroy tore him down into his own cabin, shut him in and ran to the first lieutenant, with a tear in his eye.  “Can I have a sentry, sir?”

“Sentry!  What for?”