"Gaylord; my name's Gaylord. I'm an Englishman, although I sailed on that blasted Jap ship. And my patient, Prince Kai, is dying. He'll never see China again."
"Oh!" I exclaimed, really distressed, and the others echoed my sympathy.
"He got jammed between the timbers," explained Dr. Gaylord, as he continued his luncheon, "and although three of his attendants threw themselves around him and met their own death in trying to shield him, the Prince was badly smashed and can't possibly live more than a day or two. It's a shame," he added, shaking his grizzled head, "for Kai Lun Pu has just been made one of the five Viceroys of the Empire, and he's a fine young fellow who had a promising future. The redemption of China, gentlemen, must come through these young scions of the nobility who are being educated at the colleges of England and America. They'll imbibe modern, progressive ideas, and in time upset the old prejudices of the Flowery Kingdom altogether."
He turned and cast at me a scrutinizing gaze.
"You're the young man who brought us off the wreck, I think?"
"The Prince has asked for you twice. Perhaps you'd better go to him now. I've given him a hypodermic and he feels easier."
"Why does he wish to see me?" I asked curiously.
"Some fool notion of gratitude, I suppose. These educated Chinese are very courteous and punctilious fellows. It's likely he wouldn't die comfortably if he had neglected to thank you for your slight services."
"Shall I go in alone?" I asked hesitatingly.
"Yes; walk right in. The Death's-Head is with him," added the doctor with a snort of contempt that I did not understand.
So I softly turned the handle of the stateroom door and walked in. It was not a pleasant errand to visit a dying man, and I wanted to get it over with as soon as possible.
The state cabin of the _Seagull_ was a roomy--almost spacious--apartment, and we had fitted it up carefully for the use of any important guest we might have aboard. It had never been used but once before, and as I glanced around it I felt a pang that it was now to be the scene of a death, and that a miserable Chinaman should put this blemish upon it.
Seated upon a stool beside the curtained bunk was the Chinese attendant I had brought aboard with the Prince and the doctor. Immediately I understood Dr. Gaylord's expression, "the Death's-Head," for this Chinaman typified that mythical horror in feature and expression. Perhaps I should say lack of expression, for his face was as immobile as Death itself, of a pallid gray-green color, and the skin was drawn tight as parchment over his high cheek-bones and across his thin lips. The eyes were dark and bright, but conveyed no more animation or intelligence than would glass eyes. He was dressed rather primly in a suit of black broadcloth, cut in London fashion.