"I believe he had not an enemy in the world; I am sure he will be lamented by every man and officer in the ship, poor young fellow. But come, gentlemen, enough and to spare of this"—and he rose up, and strode across the cabin, speaking with a forced composure, as we could easily perceive. "We must all die, in a sick bed or in action—either on shore or at sea; and those who, like him, fall while fighting gallantly, are better off than others who drag through a tedious and painful disease. This is trite talking, gentlemen; but it is true—God's will be done! Peace be with him, poor boy; peace be with him."
Thinking he was mad, I several times tried to break in, and disburden my mind of the whole story; but he always waved me down impatiently, and continued to walk backwards and forwards very impetuously.
At length he made a full stop, and looked earnestly in the first lieutenant's face—"He behaved gallantly, and died nobly?—all his wounds in the front?"
I could allow this to go on no longer. "Why, Sir Oliver, young De Walden is not killed, so far as we know."
He gasped—caught my arm convulsively—and burst into a weak hysterical laugh—"Not dead?"
"No, sir; none of us can say that he is dead. He did indeed behave most gallantly through the whole affair; but"——
"But what?" said he—his eyes sparkling, his brows knit, and his features blue and pinched, as if he had seen a spectre—"But what, Mr Brail? for God Almighty's sake, tell me the worst at once."
"Sir Oliver, he is missing."
His hands dropped by his side, as if suddenly struck with palsy; his jaw fell, and his voice became hollow, tremulous, and indistinct, as if the muscles of his lips and tongue had refused to do their office. When he spoke, it seemed as if the words had been formed in his chest—"Missing!"
"Yes, Sir Oliver," said Sprawl, utterly thunderstruck at his superior's conduct—"Mr De Walden is missing."