Believing that he was dying, I shouted to the boatswain, who came immediately.
The moment he looked at Cornish he uttered an exclamation.
"God knows what ails the poor creature!" I cried. "Lift his head, that I may get some brandy into his mouth."
The boatswain raised him by the shoulders, but his head hung back like a dead man's. I drew out my knife and inserted the blade between his teeth, and by this means contrived to introduce some brandy into his mouth, but it bubbled back again, which was a terrible sign, I thought; and still the tremors shook his poor body, and the eyes remained upturned, making the face most ghastly to see.
"It's his heart broke," exclaimed the boatswain, in a tremulous voice. "Jim, what's the matter with 'ee, mate? You're not goin' to let the sight o' that Roosian murderer kill you? Come, come! God Almighty knows we've all had a hard fight for it, but we're not beat yet, lad. 'Tis but another spell o' waitin', and it'll come right presently. Don't let a gale o' wind knock the breath out o' you. What man as goes to sea but meets with reverses like this here? Swaller the brandy, Jim!... My God! Mr. Royle, he's dyin'!"
As he said this Cornish threw up his arms and stiffened out his body. So strong was his dying action that he knocked the glass of brandy out of my hand and threw me backwards some paces. The pupils of his eyes rolled down, and a film came over them; he uttered something in a hoarse whisper, and lay dead on the boatswain's knee.
I glanced at Miss Robertson. Her lips were tightly compressed, otherwise the heroic girl showed no emotion.
The boatswain drew a deep breath and let the dead man's head fall gently on the flag.
"For Miss Robertson's sake," I whispered, "let us carry him forward."
He acquiesced in silence, and we bore the body off the poop and laid it on the fore-hatch.