"No, by G--? he made me wash his trowsers, sir."
He fired--the pirate stretched out his arms, turned slowly on his back,
with his face towards me. I thought he gave me a sort of "Et tu, Brute"
look, but I dare say it was fancy--his feet began to sink, and he
gradually disappeared, a few bubbles of froth and blood marking the spot
where he went down. He had been shot dead. I will not attempt to
describe my feelings at this moment, they burned themselves in on my
heart at the time, and the impression is indelible. Whether I had or
had not acted, in one sense, unjustly, by ousting myself so
conspicuously forward in the attempt to capture him, after what had
passed between us, forced itself upon my judgment. I had certainly
promised that I would, in no way that I could help, be instrumental in
his destruction or seizure, provided he landed me at St Jago, or put me
on board a friendly vessel. He did neither, so his part of the compact
might be considered broken; but then it was out of his power to have
fulfilled it; besides, he not only threatened my life subsequently, but
actually wounded me; still, however, on great provocation. But what "is
writ, is writ." He has gone to his account, pirate as he was, murderer
if you will; yet I had, and still have, a tear for his memory,--and many
a time have I prayed on my bare knees that his blue agonized dying look
might be erased from my brain; but this can never be.
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