er is na one on us but 'ud leave a limb behind to save thee, but
theer is na time--theer is na"--

One deep groan and he lay still again--quite still. God knows what
weight of mortal agony and desperate terror crushed him in that dead,
helpless pause.

Then his eyes opened as before.

"I've thowt o' deein'," he said with a catch of his breath. "I've thowt
o' deein', an' I've wondered how it wur an' what it felt like. I never
thowt o' deein' like this here." Another pause and then--

"Which o' yo' lads 'll tell my missus?"

"Ay! poor chap, poor chap!" wailed the women. "Who on 'em will?"

"Howd tha noise, wenches," he said hoarsely. "Yo' daze me. Theer is na
time to bring her here. I'd ha' liked to ha' said a word to her. I'd ha'
liked to ha' said one word; Jem Coulter"--raising his voice--"canst tha
say it fur me?"

"Aye," cried the man, choking as he spoke, "surely, surely." And he
knelt down.

"Tell her 'at if it wur bad enow--this here--it wur not so bad as it
mought ha' been--fur _me_. I mought ha' fun it worser. Tell her I'd like
to ha' said a word if I could--but I couldna. I'd like to ha' heard her
say one word, as happen she would ha' said if she'd been here, an' tell
her 'at if she had ha' said it th' tide mought ha' comn an' welcome--but
she didna, an' theer it stands." And the sob that burst from his
breast was like the sob of a death-stricken child. "Happen"--he said
next--"happen one o' yo' women-foak con say a bit o' a prayer--yo're not
so fur fro' safe sand but yo' can reach it--happen one o' yo' ha' a word
or two as yo' could say--such like as yo' teach yo're babbies."

Among these was one who had--thank God, thank God! and so, amid wails
and weeping, rough men and little children alike knelt with uncovered
heads and hidden eyes while this one woman faltered the prayer that was
a prayer for a dying man; and when it was ended, and all rose glancing
fearfully at the white line of creeping foam, this dying man for whom
they had prayed, lay upon his death-bed of sand the quietest of them
all--quiet with a strange calm.

"Bring me my jacket," he said, "an' lay it o'er my face. Theer's a bit
o' a posie in th' button-hole. I getten it out o' th' missus's garden
when I comn away. I'd like to howld it i' my hand if it's theer yet."

And as the long line of white came creeping onward they hurriedly did
as he told them--laid the rough garment over his face, and gave him the
humble dying flowers to hold