<h2>XVIII</h2></div>
<p>He died that night, smiling to the last.
He was able to speak, now and then,
before the end; and Joel and Priss were near
him, at his side, soothing him, listening....</p>
<p>He asked Joel, once: “Shall I tell you—where—pearls...”</p>
<p>Joel shook his head. “I do not want them,”
he said. “They have enough blood to turn
them crimson. Let them lie.”</p>
<p>And Mark smiled, and nodded faintly.
“Right, boy. Let them lie....” And his
eyes shone up at them; and he whispered presently:
“That was—a fight to tell about,
Joel....”</p>
<p>In those hours beside Mark, Priss completed
the transition from girl to woman. She was
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name='page_201' name='page_201'></SPAN>201</span>
very sober, and quiet; but she did not weep, and
she answered Mark’s smiles. And Mark,
watching her, seemed to remember something,
toward the last. Joel saw his eyes beckon; and
he bent above his brother, and Mark whispered
weakly:</p>
<p>“Treasure—Priss, Joel. She’s—worth all....
Kissed her, but she fought me....”</p>
<p>Joel gripped his brother’s hand. “I knew
there was no—harm in you—or in her,” he said.
“Don’t trouble, Mark....”</p>
<p>When old Aaron had stitched the canvas
shroud, they laid Mark on the cutting stage;
and Joel read over him from the Book, while
the men stood silent by. Chastened men, heads
bandaged, arms in slings ... Big Jim Finch
at one side, shamed of face. Varde, sullen as
ever, but with hopelessness writ large upon him.
Morrell, and old Hooper....
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name='page_202' name='page_202'></SPAN>202</span></p>
<p>Joel finished, and he closed the Book.
“Unto the deep....” The cutting stage
tilted, and the wave leaped and caught its burden
and bore it softly down.... The sun was
shining, the sea danced, the wind was warm on
fair Priscilla’s cheek....</p>
<p>And as though, the brief, dramatic chapter
being ended, another must at once begin, the
masthead man presently called down to Joel the
long, droning hail:</p>
<p>“Ah-h-h-h! Blow-w-w-w-w!”</p>
<p>And he flung his arm toward where a misty
spout sparkled in the sun a mile or two
away. Minutes later, the boats took water;
and the <i>Nathan Ross</i> was about her business
again.</p>
<hr class='tb' />
<p>Joel wrote in the log that night, with Priscilla
beside him, her fingers in his hair. Priscilla
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name='page_203' name='page_203'></SPAN>203</span>
had been very humble, till Joel took her
in his arms and comforted her....</p>
<p>He set down the ship’s position; he recorded
their capture, that day, of a great bull cachalot;
and then:</p>
<p>“... This day Mark Shore was buried at
sea. He died late last night, from wounds received
when he fought valiantly to put down
the mutiny of the crew. Fourth brother of the
House of Shore....”</p>
<p>And below, the ancient and enduring epitaph:</p>
<table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td>
<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0em;'>“‘All the brothers were valiant.’”</p>
</td></tr></table>
<p>Priscilla, reading over his shoulder, pointed
to this line and whispered sorrowfully: “But I—called
you coward, Joel.” He looked up at
her, and smiled a little. “I know better now,”
she said. “So—give me the pen ... And
close your eyes....”
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name='page_204' name='page_204'></SPAN>204</span></p>
<p>He heard the scratch of steel on paper; and
when he opened his eyes again he saw that Priscilla
had underscored, with three deep strokes,
the first word of that honorable line.</p>
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<p style=' font-size:0.8em; margin-top:2em;'>PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA</p>
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