The East Indiaman was won; her crew were prisoners; her cargo the prize of the Molly.
Where was Blair Robertson amid the general triumph?
This was Derry Duck's first question, as his returning footsteps again trod the deck of the privateer.
Alone in the deserted cabin, Derry found what was more precious to him now than his share in the glory or the spoils of the recent fight.
The rough sailor asked no questions of the fainting lad.

Tearing open Blair's garments, he found at once the wound, and with ready skill and unwavering firmness his sharp knife did the surgeon's duty.

The bullet was forced out by Derry's hard fingers, and his rough hands tied the bandage with a touching attempt at tenderness.

Blair uttered no murmur.
His lips moved gently, but they whispered only words befitting the sinner passing into the presence of his God.
Derry caught the low whisper, and understood its meaning.

"I can't let you go.