e; and behind, the black, black night.

* * * * *

A whisper, a rustling close beside him, and Brimblecombe's voice said
softly:

"Give him more wine, Will; his eyes are opening."

"Hey day?" said Amyas, faintly, "not past the Shutter yet! How long she
hangs in the wind!"

"We are long past the Shutter, Sir Amyas," said Brimblecombe.

"Are you mad? Cannot I trust my own eyes?"

There was no answer for awhile.

"We are past the Shutter, indeed," said Cary, very gently, "and lying in
the cove at Lundy."

"Will you tell me that that is not the Shutter, and that the
Devil's-limekiln, and that the cliff--that villain Spaniard only
gone--and that Yeo is not standing here by me, and Cary there forward,
and--why, by the by, where are you, Jack Brimblecombe, who were talking
to me this minute?"

"Oh, Sir Amyas Leigh, dear Sir Amyas Leigh," blubbered poor Jack, "put
out your hand, and feel where you are, and pray the Lord to forgive you
for your wilfulness!"

A great trembling fell upon Amyas Leigh; half fearfully he put out his
hand; he felt that he was in his hammock, with the deck beams close
above his head. The vision which had been left upon his eye-balls
vanished like a dream.

"What is this? I must be asleep? What has happened? Where am I?"

"In your cabin, Amyas," said Cary.

"What? And where is Yeo?"

"Yeo is gone where he longed to go, and as he longed to go. The same
flash which struck you down, struck him dead."

"Dead? Lightning? Any more hurt? I must go and see. Why, what is this?"
and Amyas passed his hand across his eyes. "It is all dark--dark, as I
live!" And he passed his hand over his eyes again.

There was another dead silence. Amyas broke it.

"Oh, God!" shrieked the great proud sea-captain, "Oh, God, I am blind!
blind! blind!" And writhing in his great horror, he called to Cary to
kill him and put him out of his misery, and then wailed for his
mother to come and help him, as if he had been a boy once more; while
Brimblecombe and Cary, and the sailors who crowded round the cabin-door,
wept as if they too had been boys once more.

Soon his fit of frenzy passed off, and he sank back exhausted.

They lifted him into their remaining boat, rowed him ashore, carried him
painfully up the hill to the old castle, and made a bed for him on
the floor, in the very room in which Don Guzman and Rose Salterne had
plighted their troth to each other, five wild years before.

Three