Bart was borne off to be tended by the surgeon, and Humphrey Armstrong stood gazing down at the motionless form at his feet.
He did not speak for some minutes, and all around respected his sorrow by standing aloof; but he turned at last to the officer—
“I ask honourable burial, sir, for the dead—dead to save my life.”
The officer bowed gravely, and then turned away to give a few short, sharp orders to his men, who signed to their prisoners.
These were rapidly marched down to the boats, two and two, till it came to the turn of Dinny, who stood with Mrs Greenheys clinging to him, trembling with dread.
“Now, my fine fellow,” said the warrant officer who had the prisoners in charge; “this way.”
“Sure, and ye’ll let me have a wurrud wid the captain first?”
“No nonsense. Come along!”
“Sure, an’ he’d like to shpake to me wan wurrud,” said Dinny. “Wouldn’t ye, sor!”
Humphrey, who was standing with his arms folded, wrapped in thought, looked up sharply on hearing the familiar tones of the Irishman’s voice.