he cabin to announce to us, who with sad hearts were standing
round the death-bed of our beloved chief, that Plymouth itself was in
sight.

Stretching out his arms, he sought to rise, but his strength had failed.
His eyes gazed upwards, his lips murmured a prayer, and then, when,
from the expression of his noble countenance, we saw that his spirit had
fled, even the stoutest-hearted amongst us burst into tears, sobbing
like little children. Deep, honest grief was marked on the faces of the
vast crowds which had gathered on the shores to welcome the returning
hero.

I need not speak of the magnificent funeral ordered by the Protector to
lay at rest in Westminster Abbey the honoured remains of the greatest of
England's admirals.

Among the mourners stood a grey-haired veteran, leaning on a staff to
support his tottering steps.

"Alack, alack! Master Ben, it is a sad day, and little did my eyes wish
to see it," murmured Martin. "I followed his father to the grave, but
little did I expect to outlive his noble son. I knows, howsumdever,
that it won't be for long, and I am ready, when the Lord wills, to
depart."

Old Martin's words were prophetic. He returned with Lancelot and I to
Lyme, and in a few days the old sailor took to his bed, from which he
never rose. We mourned for him sincerely, feeling that we had lost a
true and faithful friend. But he was spared from witnessing the
degradation of our country.

Three years passed. The great Protector himself was dead. His son had
retired into private life, and Charles Stuart came back to gain eternal
infamy by a thousand vile deeds, not the least among which was to order
the body of the great admiral to be exhumed and to be cast into a hole
dug near the back door of one of the prebendaries of the abbey.

After the death of my patron, I for a short time only went to sea.
Dick, who had hitherto remained afloat, came back to be present when
Lancelot and I married, and having himself taken a wife, he settled near
us in the neighbourhood of Lyme. It was not from lack of my talking of
them if our children were not well versed in the deeds of the great
admiral which I have briefly narrated in the preceding pages.

THE END.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Boy who sailed with Blake, by W.H.G. Kingston

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOY WHO SAILED WITH BLAKE ***

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