‘You will have nothing to talk about, then,’ said Colledge.
‘It is the most natural object in the world,’ exclaimed the lieutenant; ‘if he could be stuffed, preserving the posture he is in, and exhibited in London, thousands would assemble to view him.’
I left them to persuade Miss Temple if they could, and walking aft, opened the door, and peeped in. It was just a plain, immensely strong, roughly furnished deck erection, with a small hatch close against the entrance, conducting, as I supposed, to the cabin beneath. On either side went a row of lockers; in the centre was a short narrow table, supported by stanchions; and at this table sat the figure of a man. He was in an attitude of writing; his right hand grasped a long feather pen; his left elbow was on the table, and his cheek was supported by his hand. He was dressed in white jean breeches, the ends of which were stuffed into a pair of yellow leather half-boots. There was a large belt round his waist, clasped by some ornament resembling a two-headed eagle, of a shining metal, probably silver. His shirt was a pale red flannel, over which was a jacket cut in the Spanish fashion; his hair was long, and flowed in black ringlets upon his back. His hat was a large sombrero, and I had to walk abreast of him to see his face. I was prepared to witness a ghastly sight. Instead, I beheld a countenance of singular beauty. It was as if the hand of death had moulded some faultless human countenance out of white wax. The lids of the eyes drooped, and the gaze seemed rooted upon the table, as though the man lay rapt and motionless in some sweet and perfect dream. His small moustache was like a touch of delicate pencilling. He looked to have been a person of some three or four and twenty years of age.
As I stood surveying the figure, the interior was shadowed. Miss Temple and the others stood in the doorway. The lieutenant and Colledge entered; the girl would not approach.
‘Here, Miss Temple,’ said I, ‘is the handsomest man I have ever seen.’
‘Can he be dead?’ exclaimed Colledge in a subdued voice of awe.
‘He’ll never be deader,’ said the lieutenant, peering curiously into the face of the corpse. ‘Handsome, do you consider him, sir? Well, we all have our tastes, to be sure. He looks like a woman masquerading.’
‘Who was he, I wonder?’ asked Miss Temple in a low tone, standing in a half-shrinking attitude at the door.
‘Very hard to say,’ said I. ‘Too young for the captain, I should think. Probably the mate.’
‘A pirate, anyway,’ said the lieutenant.