"I saw him," cried a man, himself wounded and bleeding, "not half an hour ago. He was at his post then--where he've been all day."
"Call his name again," said Sir Geoffrey.
But still no answer was returned, as indeed no answer was returned to over forty names similarly called.
Then, later, they set forth to go the rounds of the ship and find those who had not replied, the captain going first, accompanied by a midshipman with a lanthorn. And many were found dead at their posts before, at last, they came to Lewis Granger.
He was lying upon his side by the middle-deck port-sills with his face turned downwards, while all around and beneath where his head lay was a great pool of blood--his own and others--that slowly drained towards the scuppers and so ran out to mingle with the heaving waves beneath.
"Is he dead?" asked Sir Geoffrey, gazing down at him while the midshipman held the lanthorn so that they could see his face. "Is he dead?" And as he spoke there were tears in his voice.
Was this to be the end of all, he thought; the end of the man's hopes for a better life, the end of his unchanging, unchangable love for the woman who, even now, was free?
"He is not dead, sir," the boatswain answered, kneeling by Granger's side and supporting his head above his own knee, "but he is dying; must surely die. Observe the great wound in his throat."
"Granger," said Geoffrey, kneeling by his side, "Granger--do you know me?"
Then the dying man opened his eyes and looked up at the other, who by that glance understood that he did know him.