shall save my soul, and my honour as a captain.  I am growing weaker, and the night is coming on.  If He can look me in the face again, I may not have time to act. . .  If we are wrecked, mayhap this bottle may be found, and those who find it may understand.  If not . . . well, then all men shall know that I have been true to my trust.  God and the Blessed Virgin and the Saints help a poor ignorant soul trying to do his duty . . .

Of course the verdict was an open one.  There is no evidence to adduce, and whether or not the man himself committed the murders there is now none to say.  The folk here hold almost universally that the captain is simply a hero, and he is to be given a public funeral.  Already it is arranged that his body is to be taken with a train of boats up the Esk for a piece and then brought back to Tate Hill Pier and up the abbey steps, for he is to be buried in the churchyard on the cliff.  The owners of more than a hundred boats have already given in their names as wishing to follow him to the grave.

No trace has ever been found of the great dog, at which there is much mourning, for, with public opinion in its present state, he would, I believe, be adopted by the town.  Tomorrow will see the funeral, and so will end this one more ‘mystery of the sea’.

MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL

8 August.—­Lucy was very restless all night, and I too, could not sleep.  The storm was fearful, and as it boomed loudly among the chimney pots, it made me shudder.  When a sharp puff came it seemed to be like a distant gun.  Strangely enough, Lucy did not wake, but she got up twice and dressed herself.  Fortunately, each time I awoke in time and managed to undress her without waking her, and got her back to bed.  It is a very strange thing, this sleep-walking, for as soon as her will is thwarted in any physical way, her intention, if there be any, disappears, and she yields herself almost exactly to the routine of her life.

Early in the morning we both got up and went down to the harbour to see if anything had happened in the night.  There were very few people about, and though the sun was bright, and the air clear and fresh, the big, grim-looking waves, that seemed dark themselves because the foam that topped them was like snow, forced themselves in through the mouth of the harbour, like a bullying man going through a crowd.  Somehow I felt glad that Jonathan was not on the sea last night, but on land.  But, oh, is he on land or sea?  Where is he, and how?  I am getting fearfully anxious about him.  If I only knew what to do, and could do anything!

10 August.—­The funeral of the poor sea captain today was most touching.  Every boat in the harbour seemed to be there, and the coffin was carried by captains all the way from Tate Hill Pier up to the churchyard.  Lucy came with me, and we went early to our old seat, whilst the cortege of boats went up the river to the Viaduct and came down again.  We had a lovely view, and saw the procession nearly all the way.  The poor fellow was laid to rest near our seat so that we stood on it, when the time came and saw everything.