“I may rest now,” he said, faintly.  “I may sleep at last.  The task is done.  The struggle is over.”

His last reserves of strength had been given to Frank.  He stopped—­he staggered—­his hands waved feebly in search of support.  But for one faithful friend he would have fallen.  Crayford caught him.  Crayford laid his old comrade gently on some sails strewn in a corner, and pillowed Wardour’s weary head on his own bosom.  The tears streamed over his face.  “Richard! dear Richard!” he said.  “Remember—­and forgive me.”

Richard neither heeded nor heard him.  His dim eyes still looked across the room at Clara and Frank.

“I have made her happy!” he murmured.  “I may lay down my weary head now on the mother earth that hushes all her children to rest at last.  Sink, heart! sink, sink to rest!  Oh, look at them!” he said to Crayford, with a burst of grief.  “They have forgotten me already.”

It was true!  The interest was all with the two lovers.  Frank was young and handsome and popular.  Officers, passengers, and sailors, they all crowded round Frank.  They all forgot the martyred man who had saved him—­the man who was dying in Crayford’s arms.

Crayford tried once more to attract his attention—­to win his recognition while there was yet time.  “Richard, speak to me!  Speak to your old friend!”

He look round; he vacantly repeated Crayford’s last word.

“Friend?” he said.  “My eyes are dim, friend—­my mind is dull.  I have lost all memories but the memory of her.  Dead thoughts—­all dead thoughts but that one!  And yet you look at me kindly!  Why has your face gone down with the wreck of all the rest?”

He paused; his face changed; his thoughts drifted back from present to past; he looked at Crayford vacantly, lost in the terrible remembrances that were rising in him, as the shadows rise with the coming night.

“Hark ye, friend,” he whispered.  “Never let Frank know it.  There was a time when the fiend within me hungered for his life.  I had my hands on the boat.  I heard the voice of the Tempter speaking to me:  Launch it, and leave him to die!  I waited with my hands on the boat, and my eyes on the place where he slept.  ’Leave him! leave him!’ the voice whispered.  ‘Love him!’ the lad’s voice answered, moaning and murmuring in his sleep.  ’Love him, Clara, for helping me!’ I heard the morning wind come up in the silence over the great deep.  Far and near, I heard the groaning of the floating ice; floating, floating to the clear water and the balmy air.  And the wicked Voice floated away with it—­away, away, away forever!  ’Love him! love him, Clara, for helping me!’ No wind could float that away!  ‘Love him, Clara—­’”

His voice sank into silence; his head dropped on Crayford’s breast.  Frank saw it.  Frank struggled up on his bleeding feet and parted the friendly throng round him.  Frank had not forgotten the man who had saved him.