His face was covered with blood.
"'Tis warm," said the man who had cut away the oilskin cap, and with his hand he wiped the blood away from the eyes and mouth.

Some one in the background drew a cork, with his teeth, and a bottle was handed down to those kneeling on the ground.
Suddenly the man sat up--and coughed.
"Shipmets," he said, with a splutter, and lay down again.

Some one held the bottle to his lips and wiped the blood away from his face again.
"My God!" shouted a bystander, gruffly.

"'Tis William Brooke, of the Cottages." "Yes.

'Tis me," said the man, sitting up again.