. . .
Whereaway?--Whereaway?--Steady now!--Let them have it across the
bows!--Low! low!--fire low! . . . She is dead--she is dead!"
These things he would say over and over again breathlessly, then he would
rest a while, and the trouble would begin again. "It was not I that did
it--no, it was not I. She did it herself!--She plunged it in, deep, deep,
deep! You made me a devil! . . . Hush! I WILL tell!--I know
you--yet--Mercy--Mercy--Falchion--"
Yes, it was best that few should enter his cabin. The ravings of a sick
man are not always counted ravings, no more than the words of a well man
are always reckoned sane. At last I got him into a sound sleep, and by
that time I was thoroughly tired out. I called my own steward, and asked
him to watch for a couple of hours while I rested. I threw myself down
and slept soundly for an hour beyond that time, the steward having
hesitated to wake me.
By that time we had passed into the fresher air of the Mediterranean, and
the sea was delightfully smooth. Galt Roscoe still slept, though his
temperature was high.
My conference with Mrs. Falchion after breakfast was brief, but
satisfactory.
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