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.