This was on a Saturday, about 8 A.M., when the golden sun shone in all its beauty on the fresh, cool morning sea.
Ethel could never think of Pedro without a cold shudder, and often said, "Thus is sin its own punishment;" but Rose, her terror past, had imbibed almost a sentimental pity or sympathy for the dead ruffian, who figured so largely in the diary before mentioned, which was now resumed for the benefit of her old gossip and companion, Lucy Page, at Acton-Rennel.
Captain Phillips, however, took a very different view of the matter, and so much had his naturally kind character been soured or warped by recent events, that he could scarcely be prevailed upon to read the burial service over the defunct mutineer; and thus he cut it pretty short, upon the plea that a rough day was before them, that he had few hands, and wished to take in a reef in each of the courses; so never were those words—so solemn and so awful—under the usual circumstances "we thus commit his body to the deep," so irreverently uttered, and yet, worthy old Jack Phillips is the kindest of all good fellows.
The Saturday night came on, calm, clear, and starry, the south-west monsoon blew fresh and steadily, and as close-hauled as a square-rigged craft could be, the Hermione was making a long tack towards the southern point of Madagascar. Fortunately, nothing had been seen yet of the three red proas, of which such earnest warning had been given by the officer of Her Majesty's corvette the Clyde.
The cheerful glass went round to "sweethearts and wives," and to "all ships at sea." To these weekly toasts, Captain Phillips added a special glass of stiff grog, in honour of his airy friend, "the clerk of the weather," whom Rose, who was writing, supposed to be the late Admiral Fitzroy. Ethel was occupying herself with crochet, Mr. Basset was asleep, and Morley was at the wheel on deck, and already it seemed that Pedro Barradas and the particulars of his terrible history were forgotten. So—
"The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entombed in autumn lies,
The dew dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past, and man forgot."
CHAPTER XIX.
DR. HERIOT'S FEE.
During the six preceding chapters, the reader may have been kindly wondering how Mr. Basset's health progressed after the night which succeeded the skilful attempt of Dr. Heriot to rescue him from a death that seemed all but accomplished.
That night he had passed in heavy groans, in nervous startings, and uneasy slumber; but next morning he was able to articulate, and complained to Ethel, in accents faint and weak as those of an ailing child, of pains that spread over all his body; these, however, were only consequent to the severe friction he had undergone, to restore the circulation of the blood.