The sailor pointed to the flag spread out behind where the midshipman sat; and Mark shuddered as he grasped his meaning.
“Do you think I ought to, Tom?” whispered the lad at last, in awe-stricken tones.
“What do you think, sir, left in charge as you are?” returned the man. “Seems a terrible thing for a young gent like you to give orders about, but I can’t see no way out of it. We did our best to save him, and now it don’t seem as we can save ourselves. ’Tall events, we can do no good to him, and I think the skipper—beg pardon, sir, no offence meant, the captain—will say you did what was quite right in giving me my orders.”
Mark was silent, and tried to think out the matter calmly and with reason, but his head throbbed and burned, and all kinds of thoughts of other things kept on coming to confuse him and stop the regular flow of his thought, till it was as if he could think of everything else but the subject of such great importance to those on board.
At last, though, he leaned over the side, and bathed his throbbing temples with the comparatively cool water, when, by slow degrees, the beating ceased, and the power to think calmly came back.
“Do you really feel it would be right, Tom Fillot?” he said.
“I’m sure it would, sir.”
“No, no, I couldn’t do it,” cried the boy, excitedly; “it seems too dreadful.”
“More dreadful not to do it, sir, begging your pardon,” said the man, quietly; and Mark gazed at him wonderingly to see how calm, manly, and serious he, the wag of the ship, had grown to be now.
“No, no, I dare not. Here, I’ll speak to Mr Russell.”