Julian stood mute but, "With that provision," said Lucian, "we swear."

"So help you God?" insisted the mother, and while she spoke and the
twins bowed, the narrow door let some one in.

"Is that Hugh Courteney?" asked the boy. "You're just in time, Hugh. The
feud's off."

"Oh, there's no feud, Basile," tenderly murmured Hugh.

"No, it's off, thank God. I got it off. The twins have just sworn it
off. Shake hands, boys. Come, you first, Jule."

But Lucian led, with a certain alacrity, Julian following with less.

"Now take my hand, Hugh." The voice was failing but once more it
rallied. "Give it to him, sis'.... Thank you.... Keep it, Hugh
Courteney. I love a brave man's hand. We heard you singing, Hugh. My!
but you've got grit. I wish you belonged to Gideon's band yourself.
You're braver than most men, though most men'll always think they're
braver than you."

Hugh could only dry the damp from the cold brow. He grew fiercely
ashamed not so much of his tears, which those around him were too
tearful to observe, as of the boy's praises, before which he could only
stand dumb.

"He's brave, sis'," Basile went on, "and he's clean, and he's square,
mother, boys. You were on the _Quakeress_ when she burned, wa'n't you?
Ah, me!--wish I'd known you then. I'd be a different man now. I don't
believe I'd be dying. My heavenly Father wouldn't 'a' had to call me in
out of the storm."

[Illustration: "My heavenly Father wouldn't 'a' had to call me in out of
the storm"]

His mother sank to her knees against the berth's side, covered her face,
and shook with grief. The daughter sank too, weepingly caressing her,
yet was still able so to divide her thought as yearningly to wish Hugh,
for his own sake, well away, as she saw his hand softly endeavor to draw
free from Basile's. But it was on that instant that the great tree root
came thundering up through the wheel-house and the dying clasp
tightened. The shock of surprise revived him. "Hugh--do something for
me?... Thank you. Bishop's gone, you know. Read my burial service. I
don't want the--play-actor--though he's fine; nor the priest, though
he's fine, too. Mom-a'd be a saint in any--persuasion, and pop and us
boys are Methodists, if anything, and I--I didn't get religion in Latin
and I don't want to be buried in it." He waited. Hugh was silent.

The Creole mother, still kneeling, drew closer. "Yass," she said, "he
shall read that."

But plainly there was one thing more thou