Presently the captain sank on his knee again beside the mattress. His face had the firm, determined expression of one whose mind has been made up on some line of action that has engrossed his thoughts. He put his mouth close to the sufferer’s ear.
“It’s me, Billy,—Cap’n Joe. Do ye know me?”
The eyes opened slowly and fastened themselves for an instant upon the captain’s face. A dull gleam of recognition stirred in their glassy depths; then the lids closed wearily. The glimpse of Lacey’s mind was but momentary, yet to the captain it was unmistakable. The brain was still alert.
He leaned back and beckoned to Caleb.
“Come over ’ere,” he said in a low whisper, “an’ git down close to 'im. He ain’t got long ter live. Don’t think o’ what he done to you; git that out o’ yer head; think o’ where he’s a-goin’. Don’t let him go with that on yer mind; it ain’t decent, an’ it’ll haunt ye. Git down close to ’im, an’ tell 'im ye ain’t got nothin’ agin 'im; do it for me, Caleb. Ye won’t never regret it.”
The diver knelt in a passive, listless way, as one kneels in a church to the sound of an altar bell. The flame of the lantern fell on his face and shaggy beard, lighting up the earnest, thoughtful eyes and tightly pressed lips.
“Pull yerself together, Billy, jes’ once fur me,” said Captain Joe in a half-coaxing voice. “It’s Caleb bendin’ over ye; he wants to tell ye somethin’.”
The sunken, shriveled lids parted quickly, and the eyes rested for a moment on the diver’s face. The lips moved, as if the man were about to speak. But no words came.
Over the cheeks and nose there passed a convulsive twitching,—the neck stiffened, the head straightened back upon the pillow.
Then the jaw fell.