The officer who led the strong boat’s crew to the rescue, guided by some of Captain Armstrong’s men who had escaped weeks before and after terrible privations at last found help, drew back and signed to his followers.
It was enough. Hats were doffed, and a strange silence reigned in the gloomy chamber as Humphrey knelt there holding the dead hand in his till he was touched upon the shoulder, and looking up slowly, half-stunned by the event, it was to meet the pale, drawn face of Bart.
“Do they know, captain?” he whispered, meaningly.
For a few moments Humphrey did not realise the import of his question, till he turned and gazed down once more upon the stern, handsome face fixing rigidly in death.
“No,” he said quickly, as he drew a handkerchief from his breast and softly spread it over the face of the dead. “It is our secret—ours alone.”
“Hah!” sighed Bart, and he drew back for a moment, and then gave Humphrey an imploring look before advancing once more, going down upon his knee, and taking and kissing the cold hand lying across the motionless breast.
“Captain Humphrey Armstrong, I think!” said the officer of the rescue party.
“Yes,” said Humphrey, in a dreamy way.
“We were just in time, it seems.”
“Yes,” said Humphrey, with a dazed look.