[CHAP. XI.]
THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN DEATH, AND THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS.
“There’s no saving his life, don’t you see;” remarked Tourniquet, who had discovered that Captain Death was not quite dead, and had been examining his wounds. “Every effort would be useless here, all skill unavailing; and there are many others in imminent danger, to whom I might be of service.”
“Stop, he moves!” exclaimed Oriel Porphyry, as he stood gazing on the changing features of the dying pirate.
Captain Death lay extended on his back on the deck where he had fallen. His sword was still firmly grasped in his hand, and both his arms were stretched out nearly at right angles with his body. The long silken cap in which he used to confine his black hair had fallen off, and the hair fell in disordered masses, clotted with blood, around his face. He had allowed his beard and moustachios to grow, and they now added to the natural ferocity of his countenance. His jacket, of the richest velvet, was cut through in several places, and stiffened with gore, which had run down and soiled the crimson shawl of embroidered silk he wore girded round his waist, and had more conspicuously stained his lower garments of linen. His face was livid, and his eyes blood-shot, and the expression which was impressed upon them kept continually changing from pain to rage, and from rage to hate. Occasionally some convulsive movement of the muscles would more strongly distort his features, and his body writhed and twisted as if in great agony. After a long fit of violent shuddering, which shook every part of his body, his face assumed a more tranquil expression, and his lips moved as if with an effort to speak.
“Virgo!” he whispered; “’tis your father. He comes to drag me to the halter. See how he glares at me! He laughs. He shows me his chains. No, no, no! ’Tis not that savage old man. ’Tis not him. There is no one. Come to me, my preserver, come to me; and let the refreshing purity of your caresses drive away the evil thoughts which have made my nature so abandoned and desperate. There is the little bed, with its clean white curtains; there are the flowers. There, there! I see you all again, reminding me of a state of innocence I was unworthy to share. Come, my preserver, come!”
“He is delirious, don’t you see;” observed the doctor.
“Do you think there is any possibility of his recovering?” inquired the young merchant.
“Not the slightest; he won’t live an hour;” replied Tourniquet.
“Hush!” exclaimed Oriel; “he speaks again.”