There was a growing warmth in the form which was so precious to the mate of the Molly.
Blair was still alive, and Derry would allow no duty to interfere with the sacred privilege of caring for the wounded youth, and bearing him home, living or dead, to his mother.
On a couch of Indian luxury Derry laid the prostrate figure of Blair Robertson, and as he turned to leave the cabin, the face of the once hardened tar was softened into womanly gentleness as he said, "God help him, and bring him to, sound and well." The excessive faintness and exhaustion of the wound had indeed seemed to Blair like the lingering, reluctant parting of soul and body; and he might well have adopted the words of that hymn, honored by the murmured breathings of many a dying saint: "What is this absorbs me quite, Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirit, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?
The world recedes, it disappears: Heaven opens on my eyes, my ears With sounds seraphic ring: Lend, lend your wings: I mount, I fly; O grave, where is thy victory! O death, where is thy sting!" The curtain which separates this lower world from the glories of the unseen bliss above, had grown thin and almost transparent to the eyes of the Christian boy, thus brought to the gates of death.

Near, very near to him seemed the face of the Saviour who had of late been his realized and beloved companion.

It was as the mother bows down to her suffering child, that this glimpse of the dear Redeemer was made so plain to the weakened, prostrate boy.

He was still in the flesh, and to know weary waiting and suffering, ere health should once more send the glad blood bounding along his veins.
Yet there was work for Blair Robertson on his couch of pain, work to do for his heavenly Master.

Blair was not the only sufferer on board the prize.
Often during the homeward voyage, a settee was placed beside the soft couch which Derry had appropriated to Blair's especial use.