Milly uttered a startled gasp, but Brandon hastily wiped the poor fellow’s lips, and after a moment the hemorrhage ceased.
But they looked at each other meaningly. They had lost all hope now of the shock not proving fatal.
While they had watched Swivel, the gale, as though at last satisfied with its cruel work, had gradually lessened. The wind ceased almost wholly within the next hour, although the waves did not entirely go down.
Swivel lay motionless during all this time, occasionally opening his eyes to gaze up into the faces of his two friends, whom he could see quite clearly, but otherwise showing no sign of life.
Finally he attempted to speak again.
“It’s—it’s hard—on me—ain’t it?” he gasped, in Brandon’s ear. “I—I—don’ wanter die.”
His friend did not know what to say in reply to this, but Milly seized his hand and tried to comfort him.
“Don’t be afraid. Swivel,” she said, trying to make her own faith serve for the dying fellow too. “It will be better over there.”
“Mebbee—mebbee they won’t let me come.”
“Yes, you may, if you ask, Swivel. Don’t you love God?”