At that, these rough sea-dogs, with the big hearts in their broad breasts, took hold of each other's hard hands in a circle about the body of Ewan, whose white face looked up at them in its stony stare, and there in the little lonely shed by the sea they made their mutual pledge.
All that time Dan had stood and looked on in silence, and Davy, sitting by the spluttering fire, sobbed audibly while Uncle Billy spoke.
"We must put it away," said old Billy, in a low tone, with his eyes on the body.
"Ay," said Ned Teare.
"What's o'clock?"
"A piece past twelve."
"Half-flood. It will be near the turn of the ebb at three," said Quilleash.
Not another word of explanation was needed, all understanding that they must take the body of Ewan out to sea, and bury it there after three o'clock next morning, so that, if it stirred after it was sent down to its long home, it must be swept away over the Channel.
"Heise," said one, as he put his hand down to lift the body.
"Shoo!"