But where was Tim Baylis all this time? Surely about the ship somewhere. No! We found him at last, lying at the bottom of that fatal hatchway, and a long knife-wound in his side, from which the dark blood slowly oozed. They brought him gently up, and laid him on the after-skylight; the rain had ceased, and the tropical moon shone down on the reeking deck, lending a weird clearness to every object around. He looked very calm, his dark clear-cut features looked very white and awful now.
We all stood around while the surgeon that had come with the relief party from the old _Pegasus_ carefully probed and examined the wound. It was no use; his face told us silently there was 'no hope!' that dear old Tim Baylis would soon be at rest for ever. 'Hush! he is speaking.' Conscious once again, on board the ship he had defended with his life, the spirit of him we had learned to love so well seemed to return to us once again ere it went forth into that unknown 'darkness' he had spoken of so strangely and thoughtfully scarce an hour before. He said a few words to us all, reminding us of the many bright and happy days we had spent in times past together--days that had left their pleasant memories of the foreign shores by which they had been passed, mementos of a time gone by, but still fresh and vivid in our minds. Asking pardon of any, then, he might in thoughtless mirth unconsciously have wounded, and telling us when, in better days and more joyous scenes, we might chance to review the past and those who had peopled it, not to forget poor Tim, lying cold and dead on the banks of the Irrawaddi river. Turning painfully to me, he said in faltering words: 'See my dear mother, Charlie. Tell her all is over. Tell her that though the end has come while far away from her, I did not forget her love. Ask her to forgive my wilfulness, to think of me with pity. And Charlie, don't let those niggers haul me about before I'm buried. Good-bye, old fellow. How dark it is getting!'
We laid him next day in his grave in the European cemetery, under the shade of a spreading mango; a few fellows from the old _Pegasus_ and ourselves looked last on his coffin; and before we sailed, had laid a double wreath on the already bright and flowering turf. Reader! should you ever bend your steps to the sacred city of the Great Pagoda, turn aside for a moment from the deepening shadows of its ancient temple, and reading the words on a little marble cross under the branches of the old mango-tree, pause, and think on the noble death of poor Tim Baylis.