A hand grasped his.
"Mr. Caryll," said the old Commander in strange and formal voice, "I've sent for you upon the quarter-deck to thank you for your gallantry in your first action, which is also, I fear, your last…. Can you swim?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, then, slip overboard, if you've a mind, and make shift for yourself."
"No, sir, thank you. I'll stand by the ship."
The old man grunted satisfaction.
"Then say your prayers."
He put the whistle between his teeth.
The flag he had kept flying, nailed to the splintered mizzen, curled languidly above his head.
The old mail, dying in its shadow, eyed it with silent content.