DEATH OF A SHAMAN. 43

‘Oh, I can’t pray now, it’s too late! too late!’
he exclaimed in a low despairing voice, as he
sank back on his pillow, turning his fast glazing
eye away from me. He had been delirious for
some time before then, but his senses had lately
been restored. He seemed instinctively to feel
that I could offer him none of the consolation he
needed.

While I was still standing by the side of his
bunk, one of the mates came forward to see how
the sick were getting on. He spoke afew words to
try and comfort the dying man. They had no more
effect than mine, he only groaned out, ‘It’s too
late! too late! too late!’ His voice rapidly grew
weaker—there was a slight convulsive struggle ;
the mate lifted his hand, it fell down by his side.

‘Poor Bob has gone,’ he said, ‘there will be
more following before long, I fear. If I was the
captain I would get out of this river without wait-
ing for a full cargo, or we shail not have hands
enough left to take the vessel home.’

This scene made a deep impression on me; too
late! too late! continued sounding in my ears.
What if I were to be brought to utter the same ex-
pression? Where was poor Bob now? I tried not to