"Sir Wycherly Wychecombe, the young 'un—the old 'un slipped the night as we moored in his house."

"I hope, Sir Gervaise, I have not entirely passed from your recollection; it would grieve me sadly to think so. And my poor uncle, too; he who died of apoplexy in your presence!"

"Nullus, nulla, nullum. That's good Latin, hey! Duke? Nullius, nullius, nullius. My memory is excellent, gentlemen; nominative, penna; genitive, pennae, and so on."

"Now, Sir Jarvy, since you're veering out your Latin, I should likes to know if you can tell a 'clove-hitch' from a 'carrick-bend?'"

"That is an extraordinary question, Galleygo, to put to an old seaman!"

"Well, if you remembers that, why can't you just as reasonably remember your old friend, Admiral Blue?"

"Admiral of the blue! I do recollect many admirals of the blue. They ought to make me an admiral of the blue, duke; I've been a rear-admiral long enough."

"You've been an admiral of the blue once; and that's enough for any man," interrupted Galleygo, again in his positive manner; "and it isn't five minutes since you know'd your own rank as well as the Secretary to the Admiralty himself. He veers and hauls, in this fashion, on an idee, gentlemen, until he doesn't know one end of it from t'other."

"This is not uncommon with men of great age," observed the duke. "They sometimes remember the things of their youth, while the whole of later life is a blank. I have remarked this with our venerable friend, in whose mind I think it will not be difficult, however, to revive the recollection of Admiral Bluewater, and even of yourself, Sir Wycherly. Let me make the effort, Galleygo."

"Yes, Lord Geoffrey," for so the steward always called the quondam reefer, "you does handle him more like a quick-working boat, than any on us; and so I'll take an hopportunity of just overhauling our old lieutenant's young 'uns, and of seeing what sort of craft he has set afloat for the next generation."

"Sir Gervaise," said the Duke, leaning over the chair, "here is Sir Wycherly Wychecombe, who once served a short time with us as a lieutenant; it was when you were in the Plantagenet. You remember the Plantagenet, I trust, my dear sir?"

"The Plantagenets? Certainly, duke; I read all about them when a boy. Edwards, and Henrys, and Richards—" at the last name he stopped; the muscles of his face twitched; memory had touched a sensitive chord. But it was too faintly, to produce more than a pause.

"There, now," growled Galleygo, in Agnes' face, he being just then employed in surveying her through a pair of silver spectacles that were a present from his master, "you see, he has forgotten the old Planter; and the next thing, he'll forget to eat his dinner. It's wicked, Sir Jarvy, to forget such a ship."

"I trust, at least, you have not forgotten Richard Bluewater?" continued the Duke, "he who fell in our last action with the Comte de Vervillin?"

A gleam of intelligence shot into the rigid and wrinkled face; the eye lighted, and a painful smile struggled around the lips.

"What, Dick!" he exclaimed, in a voice stronger than that in which he had previously spoken. "Dick! hey! duke? good, excellent Dick? We were midshipmen together, my lord duke; and I loved him like a brother!"

"I knew you did! and I dare say now you can recollect the melancholy occasion of his death?"

"Is Dick dead?" asked the admiral, with a vacant gaze.

"Lord—Lord, Sir Jarvy, you knows he is, and that 'ere marvel constructure is his monerment—now you must remember the old Planter, and the County of Fairvillian, and the threshing we guv'd him?"

"Pardon me, Galleygo; there is no occasion for warmth. When I was a midshipman, warmth of expression was disapproved of by all the elder officers."

"You cause me to lose ground," said the Duke, looking at the steward by way of bidding him be silent: "is it not extraordinary, Sir Wycherly, how his mind reverts to his youth, overlooking the scenes of latter life! Yes, Dick is dead, Sir Gervaise. He fell in that battle in which you were doubled on by the French—when you had le Foudroyant on one side of you, and le Pluton on the other—"

"I remember it!" interrupted Sir Gervaise, in a clear strong voice, his eye flashing with something like the fire of youth—"I remember it! Le Foudroyant was on our starboard beam; le Pluton a little on our larboard bow—Bunting had gone aloft to look out for Bluewater—no—poor Bunting was killed—"

"Sir Wycherly Wychecombe, who afterwards married Mildred Bluewater, Dick's niece," put in the baronet, himself, almost as eager as the admiral had now become; "Sir Wycherly Wychecombe had been aloft, but was returned to report the Pluton coming down!"

"So he did!—God bless him! A clever youth, and he did marry Dick's niece. God bless them both. Well, sir, you're a stranger, but the story will interest you. There we lay, almost smothered in the smoke, with one two-decker at work on our starboard beam, and another hammering away on the larboard bow, with our top-masts over the side, and the guns firing through the wreck."

"Ay, now you're getting it like a book!" exclaimed Galleygo exultingly, flourishing his stick, and strutting about the little chapel; "that's just the way things was, as I knows from seeing 'em!"

"I'm quite certain I'm right, Galleygo?"

"Right! your honour's righter than any log-book in the fleet. Give it to 'em, Sir Jarvy, larboard and starboard!"

"That we did—that we did"—continued the old man earnestly, becoming even grand in aspect, as he rose, always gentleman-like and graceful, but filled with native fire, "that did we! de Vervillin was on our right, and des Prez on our left—the smoke was choking us all—Bunting—no; young Wychecombe was at my side; he said a fresh Frenchman was shoving in between us and le Pluton, sir—God forbid! I thought; for we had enough of them, us it was. There she comes! See, here is her flying-jib-boom-end—and there—hey! Wychecombe?—That's the old Roman, shoving through the smoke!—Caesar himself! and there stands Dick and young Geoffrey Cleveland—he was of your family, duke—there stands Dick Bluewater, between the knight-heads, waving his hat—HURRAH!—He's true, at last!—He's true, at last—HURRAH! HURRAH!"

The clarion tones rose like a trumpet's blast, and the cheering of the old sailor rang in the arches of the Abbey Church, causing all within hearing to start, as if a voice spoke from the tombs. Sir Gervaise, himself, seemed surprised; he looked up at the vaulted roof, with a gaze half-bewildered, half-delighted.

"Is this Bowldero, or Glamorgan House, my Lord Duke," he asked, in a whisper.

"It is neither, Admiral Oakes, but Westminster Abbey; and this is the tomb of your friend, rear-admiral Richard Bluewater."

"Galleygo, help me to kneel," the old man added in the manner of a corrected school-boy. "The stoutest of us all, should kneel to God, in his own temple. I beg pardon, gentlemen; I wish to pray."

The Duke of Glamorgan and Sir Wycherly Wychecombe helped the admiral to his knees, and Galleygo, as was his practice, knelt beside his master, who bowed his head on his man's shoulders. This touching spectacle brought all the others into the same humble attitude. Wycherly, Mildred, and their children, with the noble, kneeling and praying in company. One by one, the latter arose; still Galleygo and his master continued on the pavement. At length Geoffrey Cleveland stepped forward, and raised the old man, placing him, with Wycherly's assistance, in the chair. Here he sat, with a calm smile on his aged features, his open eyes riveted seemingly on the name of his friend, perfectly dead. There had been a reaction, which suddenly stopped the current of life, at the heart.

Thus expired Sir Gervaise Oakes, full of years and of honours; one of the bravest and most successful of England's sea-captains. He had lived his time, and supplied an instance of the insufficiency of worldly success to complete the destiny of man; having, in a degree, survived his faculties, and the consciousness of all he had done, and all he merited. As a small offset to this failing of nature, he had regained a glimmering view of one of the most striking scenes, and of much the most enduring sentiment, of a long life, which God, in mercy, permitted to be terminated in the act of humble submission to his own greatness and glory.

THE END