thing more solemn than a burial at sea. Ashore there
are familiar landmarks, the nearness of the haunts of men, the
neighbourly headstones, the great company of the dead, to take from the
loneliness of the grave. Here was nothing but a heaving ship on the
immensity of mid-ocean, an open gangway, a figure shrouded in folds of
a Flag, and a small knot of bare-headed men, bent and swaying to meet
the lurches of the vessel, grouped about the simple bier. The wind had
increased and there was an ominous harping among the backstays. The
ship was heaving unsteadily, and it was with difficulty we could keep a
balance on the wet, sloping deck. Overhead the sky was black with the
wrack of hurrying clouds, and the sullen grey water around us was
already white-topped by the bite of freshening wind.

"I am th' Resurrection an' the Life, saith th' Loard"--Martin, laid on
a slanted hatch, was ready for the road, and we were mustered around
the open gangway. The Old Man was reading the service in his homely
Doric, and it lost nothing of beauty or dignity in the
translation--"an' whosoever liveth an' believeth in me sall never die."
He paused and glanced anxiously to windward. There was a deadly check
in the wind, and rain had commenced to fall in large, heavy drops. "A
hand t' th' tops'l halyards, Mister," quietly, then continuing, "I know
that my Redeemer liveth, an' that He sail stand at th' latter day upon
th' airth. An' though ... yet in my flesh sail I see Goad...."
Overhead, the sails were thrashing back and fore, for want of the
breeze--still fell the rain, lashing heavily now on us and on the
shrouded figure, face up, that heeded it not.

Hurriedly the Old Man continued the service--"Foreasmuch as it hath
pleased Almighty Goad of his gre--at merrcy t' take unto Himself th'
so-al of oor de-ar brother, here departed, we therefore commit he's
boady t' th' deep ... when th' sea sall give up her daid, an' th' life
of th' worl-d t' come, through oor Loard, Jesus Christ."

At a sign, the Second Mate tilted the hatch, the two youngest boys held
the Flag, and Martin, slipping from its folds, took the water feet
first in a sullen, almost noiseless, plunge.

"Oor Father which airt in heaven"--with bent head the Old Man finished
the service. He was plainly ill at ease. He felt that the weather was
'making' on him, that the absence from the post of command (the narrow
space between wheel and binnacle) was ill-timed. Still, his