was where he had buried his late captain.

Mr. Burns said that it was at the entrance to the gulf. A roomy grave; a
sufficient answer. But the mate, overcoming visibly something within
him--something like a curious reluctance to believe in my advent (as an
irrevocable fact, at any rate), did not stop at that--though, indeed, he
may have wished to do so.

As a compromise with his feelings, I believe, he addressed himself
persistently to the rudder-casing, so that to me he had the appearance
of a man talking in solitude, a little unconsciously, however.

His tale was that at seven bells in the forenoon watch he had all hands
mustered on the quarterdeck and told them they had better go down to say
good-bye to the captain.

Those words, as if grudged to an intruding personage, were enough for
me to evoke vividly that strange ceremony: The bare-footed, bare-headed
seamen crowding shyly into that cabin, a small mob pressed against that
sideboard, uncomfortable rather than moved, shirts open on sunburnt
chests, weather-beaten faces, and all staring at the dying man with the
same grave and expectant expression.

"Was he conscious?" I asked.

"He didn't speak, but he moved his eyes to look at them," said the mate.

After waiting a moment, Mr. Burns motioned the crew to leave the cabin,
but he detained the two eldest men to stay with the captain while he
went on deck with his sextant to "take the sun." It was getting toward