s though they tried to follow the words of the song. Presently the
footsteps again began to advance, and again the voice broke out--

"So it's hey! for the homeward bound, my lads,
And ho! for the drunken crew.
For his messmates round lie dead and drowned,
And the devil has got his due, my Lads--
Sing ho! but he--"

He saw us. He had turned the corner, and stood facing us; and as he
faced us, I understood my companion's horror. The new-comer wore a
shirt of the same red colour as my comrade, and trousers of the same
stuff, but less cut and torn with the rocks. At his side hung an
empty sheath, that must once have held a short knife, and the handle
of another knife glittered above his waistband. But it was his face
that fascinated all my gaze. Even had I no other cause to remember
it, I could never forget the lines of that wicked mouth, or the
glitter in those cruel eyes as their first sharp flash of surprise
faded into a mocking and evil smile.

For a minute or so he stood tranquilly watching our confusion, while
the smile grew more and more devilishly bland. Not a word was
spoken. What my comrade did I know not, but, for myself, I could not
take my eyes from that fiendish face.

At last he spoke: in a sweet and silvery voice, that in company with
such eyes was an awful and fantastic lie, he spoke--

"Well, this is pleasant indeed. To run across an old comrade in
flesh and blood when you thought him five fathom deep in the salt
water is one of the pleasantest things in life, isn't it, lad?
To put on sackcloth and ashes, to go about refusing to be comforted,
to find no joy in living because an old shipmate is dead and drowned,
and then suddenly to come upon him doing the very same for you--why,
there's nothing that compares with it for real, hearty pleasure; is
there, John? You seem a bit dazed, John: it's too good to be true,
you think? Well, it shows your good heart; shows what I call real
feeling. But you always were a true friend, always the one to depend
upon, eh, John? Why don't you speak, John, and say how glad you are
to see your old friend back, alive and hearty?"

John's lips were trembling, and something seemed working in his
throat, but no sound came.

"Ah, John, you were always the one for feeling a thing, and now the
joy is too much for you. Considerate, too, it was of you, and really
kind--but that's you, John, all over--to wear an old shipmate's cap
in