life my one great interest for the time being as
well. I shared none of his delusions, poor fellow; but it is hardly an
exaggeration to say that my eagerness to follow our remarkable adventure
to its end was as great as his anxiety to see the coffin laid in Wincot
vault. Curiosity influenced me, I am afraid, almost as strongly as
friendship, when I offered myself as the companion of his voyage home.

We set sail for England on a calm and lovely afternoon.

For the first time since I had known him, Monkton seemed to be in high
spirits. He talked and jested on all sorts of subjects, and laughed
at me for allowing my cheerfulness to be affected by the dread of
seasickness. I had really no such fear; it was my excuse to my friend
for a return of that unaccountable depression under which I had suffered
at Fondi. Everything was in our favor; everybody on board the brig was
in good spirits. The captain was delighted with the vessel; the crew,
Italians and Maltese, were in high glee at the prospect of making a
short voyage on high wages in a well-provisioned ship. I alone felt
heavy at heart. There was no valid reason that I could assign to myself
for the melancholy that oppressed me, and yet I struggled against it in
vain.

Late on our first night at sea, I made a discovery which was by no means
calculated to restore my spirits to their usual equilibrium. Monkton
was in the cabin, on the floor of which had been placed the packing-case
containing the coffin, and I was on deck. The wind had fallen almost to
a calm, and I was lazily watching the sails of the brig as they flapped
from time to time against the masts, when the captain approached, and,
drawing me out of hearing of the man at the helm, whispered in my ear:

"There's something wrong among the men forward. Did you observe how
suddenly they all became silent just before sunset?"

I had observed it, and told him so.

"There's a Maltese boy on board," pursued the captain, "who is a smart
enough lad, but a bad one to deal with. I have found out that he has
been telling the men there is a dead body inside that packing-case of
your friend's in the cabin."

My heart sank as he spoke. Knowing the superstitious irrationality of
sailors--of foreign sailors especially--I had taken care to spread
a report on board the brig, before the coffin was shipped, that the
packing-case contained a valuable marble statue which Mr. Monkton prized
highly, and was unwilling to trust out