st looked downward, pityingly. "It is a warning that the
entrance to the bay is unsafe," he answered. "Take comfort; it is
the hand of God keeping from you those who would distract your dying
thoughts from Heaven. Take comfort, and pray with me."

He seemed strangely deaf to the priest's words, and made no movement
or sign in response. Only he kept his eyes the more steadfastly
fixed upon the steamer, now plainly visible. His face showed no
disappointment. It seemed almost as though he might have seen across
the grey sea, and heard the stern orders thundered out from a slim,
motionless figure on the captain's bridge. "Right ahead, helmsman!
Never mind the signal. There's fifty pounds for every man of you if we
make the bay. It's not so bad as it looks! Back me up like brave lads,
and I'll remember it all your lives!"

Almost, too, he might have heard the answering cheer, for a faint
smile parted his white lips as he saw the steamer ploughing her way
heavily straight ahead, paying no heed to the warning signal.

On she came. The priest and the servant started as they saw her
intention, and a sharp ejaculation of surprise escaped from the
former. Side by side, they watched the labouring vessel with strained
eyes. Her hull and shape were now visible in the dim morning twilight,
as she rose and fell upon the waves. It was evident that she was a
large, handsome pleasure yacht, daintily but strongly built.

Close up against the high, bare window the three watchers,
unconsciously enough, formed a striking-looking group. The priest,
tall, pale, and severe, stood in the shadow of the bed-curtains, an
impressive and solemn figure in his dark, flowing robes, but with the
impassibility of his features curiously disturbed. He, who had been
preaching calm, was himself agitated. He had drawn a little on one
side, so that the cold grey light should not fall upon his face and
betray its twitching lips and quivering pallor; but if either of the
men who shared his watch had thought to glance at him, the sickly
candlelight would have shown at once what he was so anxious to
conceal. It was little more than chance which had brought this man
to die in his island monastery, and under his care; little more than
chance which had revealed to him this wonderful secret. But the agony
of those last few hours, and the gloomy words of the priest who leant
over his bedside, had found their way in between the joints of the
dying man's armour of secr