Our purser was a young Scotchman who was equipped with a grit that was remarkable.

He was an invalid, and looked it, as far as his body was concerned, but illness could not subdue his spirit.

He was full of life, and had a gay and capable tongue.

To all appearances he was a sick man without being aware of it, for he did not talk about his ailments, and his bearing and conduct were those of a person in robust health; yet he was the prey, at intervals, of ghastly sieges of pain in his heart.

These lasted many hours, and while the attack continued he could neither sit nor lie.