Alan took his place by the still form. “Brandy,” said he. He looked at the man on the floor. Thick veins like whipcords stood out upon his forehead. Blood trickled from his nose, his ears, his mouth. His lips were swollen, and were blue in colour and cracked.
“He’s gone,” said Alan.
“Dead?” cried Mavis in horror.
“Quite dead.” Gently they carried the dead man, who had risked his life for his friends, to his little sleeping cabin. Tenderly they laid him on his bed, covered up his face, and closed the door softly behind them. Then they went back to Mavis who was watching over Masters.
“How is he?” asked Desmond.
“Better, I think. He asked for water. I think he is sleeping now.”
Alan bent over their old and valued friend. The look of pallor had vanished, the veins subsided, he was breathing naturally.
“Poor Murdoch,” sobbed Mavis. “I feel it was my fault. I was always worrying you to open the shutters and let us go outside.”
“Don’t worry, little one,” said Sir John. “He died like an English gentleman.”
“Oh how terrible everything is,” she sobbed hysterically. “There seems no end to our torment. Oh this horrible place, this horrible ship of doom!”