“Bury dis locket in my grave,” he said.
He took two rings from off his thin white fingers.
“For my sister and my mother,” he said.
He never spoke again, but died with those dear names on his lips.
Ralph showed himself a very hero in these sad times of trouble and death. He was here, there, and everywhere, by night and by day; assisting the surgeon and helping Seth to attend upon the wants of the sick and dying; and many a pillow he soothed, and many a word of comfort he gave to those who needed it. The true Saxon character was now beautifully exemplified in our English hero. He possessed that noble courage which never makes itself uselessly obtrusive, which fritters not itself away on trifles, and which seems at most times to lie dormant or latent, but is ever ready to show forth and burn most brightly in the hour of direst need.
Sorrows seldom come singly, and one day Stevenson, in making his usual morning report, had the sad tidings to add that cask after cask of provisions had been opened and found bad, utterly useless for human food.
McBain got up from his chair and accompanied the mate on deck.
“I would not,” he said, “express, in words what I feel, Mr Stevenson, before our boys; but this, indeed, is terrible tidings.”
“It can only hasten the end,” said Stevenson.
“You think, then, that that end is inevitable?”