“I do.”

“I ask no more.—­Now, Reverend Minister of God, perform thy holy office, near my companions.  Then ignorance may profit by your service.  If I quit this bright and glorious scene, without thought and gratitude to that Being who, I humbly trust, has made me an heritor of still greater things, I offend wittingly and without hope.  But these may find consolation in your prayers.”

Amid an awful and breathing silence, the chaplain approached the devoted companions of Wilder.  Their comparative insignificance had left them unobserved during most of the foregoing scene; and material changes had occurred, unheeded, in their situation.  Fid was seated on the deck, his collar unbuttoned, his neck encircled with the fatal cord, sustaining the head of the nearly helpless black, which he had placed, with singular tenderness and care, in his lap.

“This man, at least, will disappoint the malice of his enemies,” said the divine, taking the hard hand of the negro into his own; “the termination of his wrongs and his degradation approaches; he will soon be far beyond the reach of human injustice.—­Friend, by what name is your companion known?”

“It is little matter how you hail a dying man,” returned Richard, with at melancholy shake of the head.  “He has commonly been entered on the ship’s books as Scipio Africa, coming, as he did, from the coast of Guinea; but, if you call him S’ip, he will not be slow to understand.”

“Has he known baptism?  Is he a Christian?”

“If he be not, I don’t know who the devil is!” responded Richard, with an asperity that might be deemed a little unseasonable.  “A man who serves his country, is true to his messmate, and has no skulk about him, I call a saint, so far as mere religion goes.  I say, Guinea, my hearty, give the chaplain a gripe of the fist, if you call yourself a Christian.  A Spanish windlass wouldn’t give a stronger screw than the knuckles of that nigger an hour ago; and, now, you see to what a giant may be brought.”

“His latter moment is indeed near.  Shall I offer a prayer for the health of the departing spirit?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know!” answered Fid, gulping his words, and uttering a hem, that was still deep and powerful, as in the brightest and happiest of his days.  “When there is so little time given to a poor fellow to speak his mind in, it may be well to let him have a chance to do most of the talking.  Something may come uppermost which he would like to send to his friends in Africa; in which case, we may as well be looking out for a proper messenger.  Hah! what is it, boy?  You see he is already trying to rowse something up out of his ideas.”

“Misser Fid—­he’m take a collar,” said the black, struggling for utterance.