CHAPTER XXVI.
DUNMAN'S CAVE.
Flags hung at half mast the rest of that day, and minute guns were fired at sunset.

And there was something sad and solemn in the dull, booming sound as it echoed and reechoed over that broad and mysterious sea.

And when night came, and drew a dark curtain around the ship, and her timbers murmured and complained, and every sail stood out in shadow against the clear sky, and the surface of the water seemed alive with sprites, flitting and dancing here and there, groups of sorrowing men were seen gathered about the decks, giving expression to their grief at the loss of their old captain.
"God bless him! He was good to us all.

There'll be no more whales to kill where he has gone." These were the words of regret that fell from lips that rarely invoked a prayer.
At midnight, when the bells had struck, the crew gathered together on the forward deck, and while one held a lamp another read the Episcopal service for the burial of the dead.

And as the light at times reflected each figure of the group, giving it a phantom-like appearance, the picture presented was sad and impressive--such as can only be seen at sea, where each sound calls up some memory, and the sailor fancies he can see the spirit of some departed friend in every flitting shadow.
Officers and men alike began to feel how great was their loss.