Barclay was not much of a doctor, but he spread cushions in the bottom of the boat and laid the body of the poor captain flat thereon, while Teenie knelt down beside it and gave way to floods of anguish.
It was heartrending to witness her grief and her lamentations.
“O ’Tonio, poor dear ’Tonio. He is dead. He is killed and deaded. He will never sing and play again. O ’Tonio, ’Tonio. Hands so cold too, and brow and face. He will never, never open his eyes no more. O ’Tonio, my ’Tonio!”
Barclay could detect no pulse at the wrist, but thought he felt a little flickering at the heart.
The men worked like slaves to get the boat through the tangled weeds, and at length they found themselves alongside the Zingara, and their burden, all so quiet and still, was hoisted on board.
A cot was swung on the quarter-deck, and an awning spread above. In this Antonio was laid and covered with rugs.
At Sister Leona’s request there were jars of hot water placed at the feet and both sides of the chest.
In half-an-hour she nodded and smiled to Barclay, and the boy knew there was hope. The pulse had begun to beat once more, though feebly, and the breathing was perceptible, but very feeble.
Even Teenie dried her eyes now.
“Keep the ship as quiet as possible,” whispered Leona. “Everything now depends on sleep.”