{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_33945/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_33945","id":"gutenberg_33945","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33945","summary":null,"tags":["Allegories","Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Novels","Fiction"],"text":"</pre>\n\n\n\nProduced by Suzanne Shell, JoAnn Greenwood and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This\nfile was produced from images generously made available\nby The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE UNKNOWN SEA\n\nBY\n\nCLEMENCE HOUSMAN\n\n[Decoration]\n\nLONDON _DUCKWORTH and CO._ 3 HENRIETTA STREET, W.C. 1898\n\n\n_All rights reserved_\n\nEdinburgh: T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty\n\n\n\n\nTHE UNKNOWN SEA\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nA solitary fisher ploughed the lively blue of a southern sea. Strength of\nlimb, fair hair, and clear grey eyes told of a northern race, though his\nskin had been tanned to a red-brown, dark as the tint of the slender,\ndark-eyed, olive-skinned fishers born under these warm skies. In stature\nand might a man, he was scarcely more than a boy in years; beardless yet,\nand of an open, boyish countenance. As his boat raced eagerly forward he\nlaughed for pride of heart, and praised her aloud after a fashion native\nto the south: she was his beloved, his bird, his blossom, his queen; and\nfor his warrant well built she was, promising strength and speed in due\ndegrees, and beautiful obedience to him. Her paint was bright, her ruddy\ncanvas unstained, in contrast to a pile of tackle, black from age and\nuse: the nets and the weighted cross-beams of coral fishing.\n\nWhite wings against the sky, and white crests upon the sea, broke the\nentire blue. Far away to eastward, faint and hazy, suave lines extended;\nbut a coast that the boy neared lifted gaunt and desolate cliffs,\noverlooking a waste of roaring breakers. Midmost of these, sheer and\nblack as the crags beyond, a dark mass rose dominant, like a sullen\noutcast from the land holding rule, whose mere aspect fitted well the\nname, Isle Sinister, without an evil implication that went therewith. The\nyoung fisher's memory was stored with dark tales, born long ago to night\nand fear, cherished by generations into fine growth, not by such as he to\nbe utterly scouted. The sound of buoy-bells reached his ears for warning,\nbut he eyed the intricate lines of breakers, he recalled ominous reports,\nonly to estimate the nerve of body and mind needful to any mortal bent\nthere upon a perilous trespass.\n\nFor a tale went that kept every fisher well aloof, to shun a danger worse\nthan shipwreck. Little gain was it held for any once driven within the\nbuoy-bells to work clear again to open sea, since sorrow and disaster\nwould dog thenceforward, nor cease till due forfeit were paid: the boat\nbroken up and burnt, her very ashes delivered to the sea. Woe even to the\nman who dare take any least splinter to burn on his hearth, for sickness\nand death would desolate his home. Nay, if a shifting wind but carried\nthe ashes landwards, blight or murrain would follow surely. So went\ntradition, and conviction attended it well, since not within memory had\nany hardy or unfortunate supplied a living test. Now truly this boy, who\ncame coasting perilously, needed to have in his veins the blood of an\nalien race, over and above youth and great strength, to be traversing a\nsuperstition of such dark credit, in others bred deep and strong.\n\nYears ago he had been fascinated by the terrors and mystery of the place,\nand with a human desire after the unattainable, most strong and\nunregulated in youth, he had fearfully longed for a strength to do and a\nheart to dare more than all his world: to get footing where never man had\nstood: to face black luck and its befitters with a higher faith, defying\na supremacy of evil. Very early, out of the extravagant vagaries of a\nchild's brain, an audacious word had escaped, sped by a temper aflame,\nfor which he had suffered--from youngsters a day's derision, from a\nstrict elder a look that was worse disgrace. He deemed that might come to\nbe recalled to his credit. Now that he was grown to a strength\nunmatched, with a heart proud and eager, impatient of any mastery not of\nlove and reverence, a notion pleased him that like enough these tales had\nbeen magnified to recover the self-esteem of balked adventurers: a\npresumption not extreme in one whose superb strength had lowered old\nrecords, who found that none could withstand him to his full\nsatisfaction. Here in the bright sunshine of high day, the year's eager\nspring quick in every vein, young virile audacity belittling all hazards,\nthe lad's heart rode so high and sure that he could laugh outright in\nanswer to the expostulation of the Sinister buoys. Yet he crossed himself\nmore than once.\n\n'We will do it, Beloved, you and I.'\n\nTo and fro he hovered awhile to consider the lie of the reefs and select\nhis way. Then the sail clapped and swelled again, and the boat heeled, as\nboldly he turned her, and steered within the buoy-bells away for the\nbreakers. Again he crossed himself as now were he and his boat committed\non a challenge to fortune.\n\nGracious to bold and dexterous handling the boat glided into the maze.\nThe disposition of the outer channels was so favourable as to have gone\nfar in beguiling the boy to his rash undertaking; but there were hedges\nof wicked breakers that thwarted him and turned him aside disappointed.\nCreeping along warily with only a corner of sail, steering with fine\nsleight through the narrows, and avoiding eddies, he carried his boat\nunscathed where never another man he knew could dare to follow. But ah!\nhow meagre was that satisfaction, since far, yet too far from him the\nIsle Sinister held reserve. But at least he was able to scan the rocky\nmass to advantage. It towered up with straight, repellent walls towards\nthe land; it sloped down steeply where he desired to win; but there to\nbalk him, minatory in aspect, stood the Warders--five detached rocks--so\nlofty that the highest columns of surf spouting there fell short of their\ncrowns. The ugliest threat he recognised bided there, close against\nsuccess.\n\n'No fault is yours, Beloved, if we cannot do it: nor hardly mine either,\nI think. Were but one other with us we might be well-nigh confident. With\nPhilip at the oars! None we wanted to share with us--and yet! Ah! no. Not\nhe nor any would.'\n\nHe was deeply involved. At least a mile of grim discouragement stretched\non every hand. Then he came upon the sunken hulk of an old wreck.\nFiercer eddies and narrower channels constrained him to drop sail and\ntake to the oars. A hard, dangerous, disheartening struggle set him\nnearer by a poor measure, but lost him in hope on the way.\n\n'Fools and cowards all! Pleased would they be were I foiled, they\nknowing. How they would jeer; ay, with worse, too. It might go hard with\nme. But you, Beloved, never fear that I should fail you, if they\ntried--no, they would not,--not if they care for whole bones.\n\n'To think that if we win, not for months may I praise you by the tale,\nnot till we both have disproved and outlived the following of bad luck.\nDefend us from one spying us here.'\n\nThe boy glanced about with anxiety, giving special scrutiny to one high\ncliff opposite. There, scarcely distinguishable from the crags, stood up\na grey tower, the bell-tower of an ancient devout institution, the House\nMonitory. His face grew rigid under a sudden apprehension. If he were\nsighted from above, what should stay those bells from knelling for him.\nHe held his breath, and listened for them to break silence on the\ninstant, realising one peril which he had not before considered. 'Hark!'\nwould go the word, 'why does the House Monitory ring? in daylight, in\nfair weather? Who can be in peril off the Isle Sinister?' From cliffs to\ncoves the word would drop, and start the swiftest sails out to\ninvestigate, for his exposure to ridicule or worse.\n\nIn a past century three bells had been towered there: consecrated and\nnamed after three Saints, to knell for souls that passed, unconfessed,\nunhouseled, in that place of wrecks; to be potent against the dominion of\npowers darker than death, too regnant there. The best, the only, succour\nwas this that human fellowship could accomplish for doomed lives. Now,\nthough cultured intelligence smiled at the larger superstition, the\nsimple held it at its old worth; and still, to the comfort of their\nsouls, a pious community kept the custom, serving the bells; and for\ntheir more tangible welfare tended a beacon light.\n\nA little chill ran in the boy's veins as he anticipated the outbreak of\nthose ominous bells; never yet had they rung for any, far involved as he,\nwho had known escape. He betook himself more desperately to his\nendeavour. Necessity pressed him hard, for the tide ran, and suddenly\ndeclared that retreat to the open sea was cut off: where he had sailed\nfree channels rocks grinned; reason withstood a fancy that they had lain\nin ambush, and risen actually to hem him in. Twice he risked with the\nnarrowest of chances, and slid safe on the heave of a wave; on the third\nchallenge a treacherous, swirling eddy caught the boat, swung it aslant,\ncrashed it upon a lurking rock. A plank gave way splintered, and water\nspirted within.\n\nThe boy rowed desperate, straining by quick strokes and few, after\ndeliverance from the narrows. Yet when he dared to lay aside the oars for\nan instant to check the leak, the boat was pitching with threats close in\non every side. He could spare only a moment to catch up his coat, plug\nwith it hastily, and drag atop the heavy cross-beams of his tackle; quick\nupon the oars again he needed to be, desperate of baling. Still the water\noozed and trickled in, to lie up to his ankles and slowly to rise. There\nwas no making out to sea; from the Isle Sinister he owned himself cut off\nby thick-set barriers; only the shore remained not absolutely\nunattainable though furthest it was.\n\nPatiently and cautiously the boy felt his way. From stroke to stroke he\nheld on safely, steady, quick-eyed, but told by the gradual water\nagainst his shins that his boat must shortly founder. Conscience smote\nhim hard; the near sure prospect of swimming for bare life among the\nbreakers opened his eyes. He had held as his very own to risk at will his\nboat and his life; now, with pangs of remorse, he recognised the superior\nclaim of a grey-haired couple, who had been parents to him, who bereft of\nhim would go down to the grave in grief and poverty. Of life, and the\nmeans of living, but little right had he to dispose, considering their\ndue and their need.\n\nThe gunwale sank low, lower, till a lurch might displace the cross-beams,\nfor they lost in weight as the water within the boat deepened. Yet point\nby point success attended, and released the foolhardy lad and his boat\nfrom dire extremity. They have chance of clean deliverance; they are past\nthe last girdle of breakers, hardly a furlong from the shore; they are\nupon sleek water, with the tide against them but lazily.\n\nThe boy rowed on with long, smooth strokes; the mere sway of his body was\nas much as the boat could carry, so little above the water was the\ngunwale. He had halved the distance, when down she went beneath him; and\nhe swam, waded, stood ashore, the first man who had ever won there\nliving by way of the sea.\n\nBut little elate could he be. He could glean drifting oars and\nstretchers, his boat might be recovered from the out tide, but the Isle\nSinister lay remote as ever. And his heart had fallen.\n\nUgly necessity gave no choice but to face the breakers again in retrace\nof his perilous way; for an alternative he could not entertain that would\nentail certain evils more to be dreaded than any risk.\n\nStraying aimlessly along the desolate shore, the boy pondered, nervous\nnow of many risks he had braved hardily. He stopped once at sight of a\ngrey patch of calcined rock. There it must have been that, not so long\nago, wreckage had been gathered and burned scrupulously, and with it the\nbodies of two drowned men, according to the custom of the coast.\nInstinctively he crossed himself, with a brief prayer for the souls of\nthose two, cut off from life in that evil place, where no help had\nreached but the heavy knell, pitiful.\n\nGreatly desiring the silence of the bells, if he were to escape with\nlife, the boy turned his eyes aloft, inclining to bespeak it. A lively\nsuspicion of hunger impelled decision; and up the cliff he went, his\nabashed vigour fain of any new output. An uncertain path promised fairly\ntill half way, where a recent lapse turned him aside on to untried slopes\nand ledges: a perilous ascent to any not bold and sure and practised. The\nspice of danger kindled the boy's blood; he won to the top with some loss\nof breath, but his head was high, and his heart was high, and ultimate\nfailure envisaged him no longer.\n\nHe stood among graves.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nThe lonely community had laid its bones to rest in a barren acre. No\nflower could bloom there ever, only close, dun turf grew. Below, the\nbroken, unquiet sea dirged ceaselessly. The spot was in perfect keeping\nwith the sovereign peace of the grave; that blank, unadorned environment\nof nature had the very beauty that can touch human sense with the concord\nof death. The young fisher stood motionless, as if his presence were\noutrage to the spirit of the silent dwellers below, so eager was he for\nlife, so brim with passion and play and hearty thirst for strong years of\nsunshine and rain. 'Yet how so,' said his heart, 'for I too shall come to\ndie?'\n\nSoftly and soberly he took his way past the ranks of low mounds, and\nconsidered his approach to the House Monitory, whose living dwellers\nmight be less tolerant of his trespass. For he realised that he had come\nwithin their outer precincts unallowed. On the one hand lay a low wall\nto indicate reserve; on the other he approached the base of the\nbell-tower itself, and the flanks of the House Monitory. He looked up at\nthe walls, fully expecting to be spied and brought to rebuke; but all was\nblank and quiet as among the dead outside. The tower rose sheer into the\nair; for the rest, a tier of the cliff had been fashioned for habitation\nby the help of masonry and some shaping and hollowing of the crude rock.\nThe window lights were high and rare. Except from the tower, hardly could\na glimpse below the sky-line be offered to any within.\n\nHe came upon a door, low and narrow as the entrance of a tomb. It looked\nso obdurate he never thought to knock there. Then the sound of low,\nmonotonous chanting, by women's voices, poor and few, told him that he\nstood without their chapel; and he understood that the low door giving\nupon the place of graves had not been fashioned for the living. Truly he\nwas alien and incongruous, although that day he had surely been many\ndegrees nearer death than any dweller there.\n\nHe made for the boundary wall, overleaped it, and then by legitimate\npathways came before the entrance door. There he stood long, not finally\ndetermined what he had come to say. It was repugnant to him to ask of any\nmortal cover for his doings, the more when they were somewhat amiss.\n\nWhile he stood, casting about for decision, he was a-stare heedlessly on\na rocky spur near by that bore the moulding of three figures. High upon\nits face they stood, where a natural suggestion had been abetted by man,\na rough pediment shaped above, a rough base below, and the names hewn\nlarge: St. Mary, St. Margaret, St. Faith. Of life size they were, and\nlooked towards the sea.\n\nAshamed of his own indecision, the boy lifted his hand and knocked at the\nwicket, so to force a resolution within the limit of seconds left. The\nstone figures clapped back an echo. His heart sprang an invocation in\nresponse, and straightway he relinquished thought of asking an irksome\nfavour of lower agents. So when the wicket opened, this was all he had to\nsay: 'Of your charity give food to a hungry body.'\n\nTo the pale, spare Monitress, half shrouded in the gloom, the ruddy young\ngiant, glowing in the sunshine, said this: 'Of your charity give food to\na hungry body.' She paused and looked at the boy, for his great stature,\nhis fair hair, and grey eyes made him very singular.\n\nThe questioning he half feared and expected did not come. The Monitress\nwithdrew silently, and presently returning handed a portion of bread. She\nsaid, 'Not food for the body, but prayer for the soul is chiefly asked of\nour charity.'\n\nThe boy's face flamed, understanding how he was rebuked. Thanks stumbled\non his tongue, and no word to excuse could come; so the wicket closed\nupon his silence.\n\nNot so closely but that the Monitress could look again, to sigh over that\ncreature of gross wants with angel-bright hair. Surprised, she saw that\nhe was instantly away, and mounted high by the three stone saints. She\nsaw that he touched their feet reverently, that he knelt down, crossed\nhimself and prayed, in a very seemly fashion. She went away, of her\ncharity in prayer for his soul.\n\nHe stood there still, after his prayer was finished, and his bread, and\nlooked over the sea long and earnestly; for from that high ledge he saw\naway to the Isle Sinister, encompassed with its network of reefs; the\ntide running low showed them in black lines, outspread like a map below.\n\nAn audacious design he revolved, no less than to achieve the Isle\nSinister yet. The long lines of reefs forbade his boat, but him they\nfairly invited, if strong swimming and deft footing could pass him on,\nfrom rock to wave, and from wave to rock, out to the far front of the\ngreat mass where the Warders stood.\n\nHe argued with his conscience, that it was no such risk as that he was\nbound to encounter for regaining the open sea, since this attempt need\nnever commit him past retreat.\n\nSighting his boat uncovered, without delay he went down. He got it\nemptied, the leak plugged quite sufficiently for the time, the anchor set\nout against the return of the tide; then he raced, plunged, and swam for\nthe Isle Sinister.\n\nThe first stretch went fairly; he met the rough handling of the waves as\na sturdy game, and opposed with an even heart. Before long he had to\nrecognise grim earnest, and do battle with all his might, so hard were\nthe elements against him and so cruel. The waves hustled and buffeted and\nhurled; and though he prevailed by slow degrees, the rocks connived for\nhis detriment. Again and again he won to a resting-place, so battered,\nbreathless, and spent, that to nourish fortitude, he needed to consider\nthe steady ascent of the vast rock up from the horizon against his\nnearing. A moment of elation it was, when, looking back to compare, he\nnoted that the shore cliffs were dwarfed by the nearer proportions of the\nIsle.\n\nBut his stout heart made too little allowance for the strain upon loyal\nmembers, so that at last he bungled, fell short at a leap disastrously,\nand was swept away, hardly escaping, gashed and stunned. His memory\nafterwards could but indistinctly record how he fared thenceforward with\nrock and wave. A nightmare remained of swirling waters mad for his life,\nand of dark crags swinging down upon him; coming nearer, swinging lower;\nwith a great shock they smote him. So he came to the Isle Sinister.\n\nHe clung precariously, lashed by the waves into an effort after a higher\nledge. As he drew himself up to safety, his brain was clearing and his\nbreath extending, nor was it long before his faculties were in order for\nwonder, gratulation, exultation. Then he shouted aloud. Against the roar\nof the surf his voice struck out wild and weak. The ledge was so narrow,\nthat while his back rested against the rock his feet dangled; he was\nnearly naked; he was bleeding; soon for return he must face peril again.\nLooking down at the waters below, leaping and snarling, and over the wild\nexpanse he had passed, to the shore half a league away, counting the cost\nin wounds and bruises, still his young heart mounted above pain and\ndoubt, to glory in indomitable strength. He flung back his wet head to\nlaugh and shout again and again, startling sea-birds to flight and\nbringing out echoes hearty enough to his ears.\n\nSurely that rock answering so was the first Warder.\n\nSpite of weariness and unsteadiness of head, he got on his feet, and\npassed from that difficult ledge of rock round to the front, where by\nsteep grades the Isle showed some slight condescension to the sea. As he\nadvanced he tried for ascent, unsatisfied still.\n\nThe five Warders stood in full parade; their rank hemmed him round;\nagainst his level the shadow of the Isle rested above their knees,\nbetween each and each a narrow vertical strip of sea and heaven struck\nblindingly sweet and blue. Sea-birds wheeled and clamoured, misliking\nthis invasion of their precincts. To his conceit the tremendous noise of\nthe breakers below sounded an unavailing protest against his escape.\n\nHe came upon a sight that displaced his immediate desire to scale the\nheights above: from the base below the tide had withdrawn, and there lay\na stretch of boulders and quiet rock pools within a fringe of magnificent\nsurf. Down he sped straightway to hold footing debatable with the jealous\nsea. Close against the line of surf, at a half-way point between the\nsolid wall of the Isle and the broken wall of the Warders, he looked up\nat either height north and south. Equal towards the zenith they rose,\nhere based upon sombre quiet, there upon fierce white tumult, that sent\nup splendid high columns, whose spray swept over the interspace of\ntumbling sea and touched the shine of the pools with frore grey. He\nsighed towards those unattainable Warders.\n\nThe air was charged with brine; its damp stayed on his skin, its salt on\nhis lips. Thirsting, he went about with an eye for a water-spring, and\nmade straight for a likely cleft. Darkest among the many scars of the\nrock it showed; deep it went, and wound deeper at his nearing. He entered\nthe gape over boulders, and a way still there was wide before him; he\ntook nine paces with gloom confronting, a tenth--aslant came a dazzling\ngleam of white. Amazed he faced to it, held stone-still an instant, sped\non and out; he stood in full sunlight, and winked bewildered at the\nincredible open of fair sands before him.\n\nThe wonder dawned into comprehension. Though far eyes were deluded by a\nperfect semblance of solidity, the half of the Isle was hollow as a\nshell. Over against him rose the remaining moiety; high walls of rock\nswept round on either side, hindered from complete enclosure by the cleft\nof his entrance. He turned and looked back through the gorge, and again\nover the sunlit open; it was hard to believe he was out of dreamland, so\nEden-bright and perfect was this contrast to the grand sombre chasm he\nhad left. White and smooth, the sands extended up to the base of the dark\nrocks. There rich drapery of weed indicated the tide-mark; strips of\ncaptured water gleamed; great boulders lay strewn; coves and alcoves\ndeeply indented the lines of the enclosing walls. To the boy's eyes it\nlooked the fairest spot of earth the sea could ever find to visit. Its\naspect of lovely austere virginity, candid, serene, strictly girt,\ntouched very finely on the fibres of sense and soul.\n\nHe stepped out on firm blanch sand ribbed slightly by the reluctant ebb.\nTrails of exquisite weed, with their perfect display of every slender\nline and leaf betokened a gracious and gentle outgoing of the sea. In\ncreamy pink, ivory, citron, and ranges of tender colour that evade the\nfact of a name, these delicate cullings lay strewn, and fragile shells of\nmanifold beauty and design. There, among weed and shell, he spied a\nbranch of coral, and habit and calling drew him to it instantly. He had\nnever fetched up its like, for the colour was rare, and for its thickness\nand quality he wondered. Suddenly the coral drops from his hand; he\nutters an inarticulate cry and stands amazed. His eye has fallen on a\nmark in the sand; it is of a human footstep.\n\nBlank disappointment at this sign of forestalling struck him first, but\nstartled wonder followed hard, and took due prominence as he looked\naround on his solitude encompassed by steep black heights, and heard the\nmuffled thunder outside that would not be shut off by them. He stooped to\nexamine the naked footprint, and was staggered by the evidence it gave;\nfor this impression, firm and light, had an outward trend, a size, a\nslightness, most like a woman's. It was set seaward towards the gorge. He\nlooked right and left for footprints of return--none were there! A lone\ntrack he saw that led hardly further, growing faint and indistinct, for\nthe feet had trodden there when the wash of the ebb was recent.\n\nHe turned, and following reversely at a run, came to the far wall, where\nevery sign failed among pools and weedy boulders; circled with all speed,\nsnatching a sight of every cove and cleft, and then sprang back through\nthe gorge.\n\nThe gloom and the fierce tumult of that outside ravine smote with a shock\nupon masculine wits that now had conceived of the presence of a woman\nthere. Compassion cried, Poor soul! poor soul! without reservation, and\naloud he called hearty reassurance, full-lunged, high-pitched. Though but\na feeble addition to the great noises there, the sea-birds grew restless:\nonly the sea-birds, no other living thing moved in response.\n\nHe made sure of a soon discovery, but he leapt along from boulder to\nboulder, hunting into every shadow, and never a one developed a cave; but\nhe called in vain. The sea limited him to a spare face of the Isle; when\nthat was explicit, he was left to reckon with his senses, because they\nwent so against reason.\n\nThe irreconcilable void sent him back to the first tangible proof, and\nagain he stood beside the footprints pondering uneasily. Had he scared a\nwoman unclothed, who now in the shame and fear of sex crouched perdue?\nBut no, his search outside had been too thorough, and the firm, light,\neven pace was a contradiction.\n\nUp and down he went in close search, but no other sign of human presence\ncould he find, not a shred of clothing, not a fragment of food. That\nsingle line of naked footprints, crossing the level sands from\ninscrutable rock to obliterate sea, gave a positive indication\ncircumstantially denied on every hand. The bewildered boy reckoned he\nwould have been better satisfied to have lighted on some uncanny slot of\nfinned heels and splay web-toes, imperfectly human; the shapely print\nexcited a contrast image of delicate, stately, perfect womanhood, quite\nintolerable to intellect and emotion of manly composition.\n\nThe steeps all round denied the possibility of ascent by tender feminine\nfeet; for they thwarted his stout endeavour to scale up to the main rock\nabove, that from the high wall receded and ascended in not extreme grades\nto the topmost pitch, where the sun was hanging well on the ponent slope.\n\nHis strict investigation took him round each wide scallop of the\nenclosure, a course that was long to conclude by reason of exquisite\ndistractions that beset every hollow of the way. For the clear rock pools\nhe found in these reserves held splendours of the sea's living blossoms:\nglowing beds of anemones full blown, with purples of iris and orchis,\nclover red, rose red, sorrel red, hues of primrose and saffron, broad\nspread like great chrysanthemums' bosses. And above the wavy fringes,\nnever quite motionless, dark wet buds hung waiting for the tide; and the\ncrystal integrity mirroring these was stirred by flashes of silver-green\nlight, the to-and-fro play of lovely minute rock-fish.\n\nHe had circled two-thirds and more when to his vigilant perceptions a\nhint came. Some ribbons of glossy weed hanging from shoulder height\nstirred a trifle overmuch in their shelter to the touch of wind.\nInstantly the wary boy thrust a hand through and encountered, not rock,\nbut a void behind; he parted the thick fall of weed, and a narrow cleft\nwas uncurtained, with blackness beyond, that to his peering dissolved\ninto a cool, dim sea-cave, floored with water semilucent, roofed with\ndarkness. Eagerly he pressed through, and dropped knee-deep into the\nstill, dark water. Involuntarily his motions were subdued; silently,\ngently, he advanced into the midst of encompassing water and rock and\ndarkness.\n\nSuch slight intrusion of daylight as the heavy kelp drapery allowed\nslanted into the glooms in slender, steady threads; from his wading hosts\nof wan lights broke and ran for the walls, casting up against them paler\nrepeats; when he halted, faint sound from them wapped and sobbed,\ndominant items in a silence hardly discomposed by the note of far-off\nsurf, so modulated by deflecting angles as to reach the ear faint and low\nas the murmur that haunts the curves of a shell.\n\nFor a long minute he stood in the midst motionless, while the chill of\nthe water told on his blood, and the quiet darkness on his spirit.\nMystery stepped here with an intimate touch, absent when under the open\nsky the sands presented their enigma. His heart did not fail; only\nresolution ordered it now, not impulse.\n\nHe spoke again to presumable ears. Only his own words he heard multiply\nin fading whispers through the hovering darkness. Silence came brooding\nback as he stood to hearken.\n\nAs his eyes dilated to better discernment, he suspected that an aisle\nwithdrew, from a faint pallor, narrowing as it tended towards his height,\nexplicable if water receded there, gathering vague translucence from some\nunseen source of light. To verify, he was advancing when a considerate\nnotion turned him about. He left the dim cavern, returned in the blinding\nsunshine to the footprints, knelt by the last, and set his fingers in the\nsand for inscription. For a long moment he considered, for no words\nseemed effectual to deliver his complexed mind. When he wrote it was a\nsentence of singular construction, truly indicative of how vague awe and\ndread had uprisen to take large standing beside simple humane solicitude.\nHe traced three large crosses, and then three words. Simple construing\nwould read thus: 'In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost\nat your service.' Moderately content with that rendering, he transcribed\nit thrice on the rocks, graving with the branch of coral. At either end\nof the entrance gorge he set it, and again large and fair above the\nhidden mouth of the cave.\n\nBack into darkness he dived to take up research, and wading towards the\ntremor of light, entered a long recess that led under low arches of rock,\ntill light grew more definite, and the water-way ended, closed in by a\nbreastwork of rock. But, this surmounted, the boy saw water again, of\nabsolute green, dark as any stone of royal malachite. The level was lower\nby several feet, perhaps the true tide-level, perhaps yet another limited\nreservoir that the sea replenished daily. He slid down the scarp and went\non, heartened by the increase of light.\n\nThe depth of the water varied, and the boy swam more often than he waded.\nThe colour of the water varied; now it strengthened into a lucent green,\nnow darkness threatened it, and he swam warily till it altered again,\nunaccountably. As his passing troubled the placid water, and ripples of\ncolourless light, circling away from him, sent wavering lines of dim\nlight rippling in response upon the sides of the passage, he caught\nvague, uncertain glimpses of dark rich colour mantling the rocks.\n\nSuddenly, when light and colour were strongest, his way was barred, a\nwall of rock closing it abruptly. Baffled and perplexed, the boy swam to\nand fro in vain quest of an outlet, till his wits leapt on a fair surmise\nthat inlets for light there must be submerged. Down he dived, groped,\nfound justification in the arching rock, emerald flooded, struck boldly\nthrough it, and rose to the surface beyond.\n\nA glory of light and colour dazzled him, momentarily repulsing his\nfaculties from possession of a grand cavern, spacious, lofty, wonderful,\nworthy to be the temple of a sea-god.\n\nHe found recovery, he found footing, then straightway lost himself in\nwonder, for such splendours he had never dreamed could be.\n\nFathoms overhead the great vault hung unpropped. Sunlight shot in high up\nin rays and bars through piercings and lancet clefts, and one large rent\nthat yet afforded no glimpse of the blue. The boy's eyes wavered and sank\nfor solace to the liquid paving below, flawless and perfect as the jasper\nsea of heaven. There pure emerald melted and changed in subtle gradations\nto jade green and beryl green; from pale chrysoprase to dark malachite\nno stone of price could deny its name to colourings else matchless. And\nthere reflection struck down a rich inlay that sard could not excel: not\nsard, agate, essonite, chalcedony, in master work of lapidaries; for the\nsombre rocks were dressed with the deep crimson of sea-moss, velvet fine.\nAmid the sober richness of weeds hung the amber of sponge-growths, blonds\nto enhance intense tertiaries. He saw that nature's structure showed\ncertain gracious resemblances to human architecture: sheer rocks rose up\nfrom the water like the shattered plinths of columns; there were apses;\nthere were aisles receding into far gloom; rayed lights overhead made a\nportion raftered, and slanting down a way hinted gothic sheaves and\nclerestory ruins. Temple and palace both it was to the eyes of the\nintruder. He could not conceive of any mortal, though noble and exalted\namong men, entering, possessing, presiding adequately in this wonderful\nsea sanctuary that nature had fashioned so gloriously, and hidden away so\ncunningly, with a covering of frowning crag, and fencing of reef and\nwave. He amended the thought to except the noblest dead. Supreme in\ndignity, excellent even here, high death crowning high life might be\nworshipped duly by such sepulture. A slab of rock like an altar tomb in\nthe midst touched his perceptions to this issue.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nImportunate above measure grew the question, barely displaced in the full\nflood of discovery: Was the unseen habitant familiar here? present here\nby some secret, easier ingress? He drew himself up from the water on the\nfirst rock, and, quiet as a watching otter, leant prone, till his\nfaculties, abroad with wonder and awe, returned to level service. Not a\nsound, not a ripple came to disprove his utter solitude.\n\nHe slipped back into the water to examine further; a sense of\nprofanation, not to be shaken off, subdued his spirit, and constrained\nhim to diffident movement through the exceeding beauty of those jewelled\naisles. Wherever he went play of light and colour encircled him: luminous\nweavings that strayed into shadowy angles, investing and adorning with\ndelicate favours. Slender isles crept away into gloom, extending into\nmystery the actual dimensions of the great cavern: these he must enter,\nevery one, for his thorough satisfaction. More than once the marbling\nand stains of the rocks deluded him, so like were they to frescoes--of\nbattle array in confusion under a fierce winged sunset, of sea-beasts\ncrouched and huddled, prone and supine, and again of sea-beasts locked\ntogether in strife. He came upon the likeness of a skull, an ill omen\nthat dealt him a sudden thrill of superstitious fear. It needed close\nscrutiny in the vague light to decide that no hand of man had shaped all\nthese. Once light broke in from above, and he saw overhead a narrow strip\nof intense blue, and a white flash from the wing of a passing sea-mew. He\ntried to scale the cleft, so to reach the heights of the main island; but\nthe steep rocks gave no sufficient foothold, and he dropped back into the\nwater bruised and discomfited. Tunnels and archways there were, too low\nand strait to let him pass. Attempting an arch, submerged like the way of\nhis entrance, his broad shoulders got wedged, and he struggled back,\nstrangling, spent, and warned against needless hazards.\n\nHe never noticed that in the great cavern one after another the rays of\nsunlight overhead shifted and withdrew, till twilight, advancing below,\nsurprised him. His reckoning of time had been lost utterly, charmed out\nof him in the vast of beauty and mystery. In a moment he also realised\nthat the lowest tiers of rocks had vanished below the water. The tide was\nrising. Hurriedly he shot away for return, and groped along the dim\npassage. The water had risen half-way towards the upper level, so that he\nmounted there with no difficulty, and made his way on, through the\nentrance cave, through the kelp-curtained cleft, and out again upon the\nsmooth white sands.\n\nToo late! That he knew by the sound of heavy waves booming from the outer\nravine before his eyes could certify how the tide had made hours'\nadvance, and was coming in with a strong, resistless swell that would\nmake short work with the best swimmer alive. He scrambled up to a\nshoulder to get a sight of the reefs that had helped him on his way; the\nnearest was already gone, and a tumbling whirlpool marked its place.\nExcept in the slack of the ebb it were madness to make the attempt.\nSunlight still touched the heights, but the quick southern twilight makes\nshort stand against night. Without question, till daybreak came with\nanother ebb, on the Isle Sinister must he abide.\n\nTo make the best of his case, he sought while daylight lasted after\nshell-fish to stay his growing hunger. Then in the dusk he gathered dry\nweed and spread it for his couch on a ledge as high above the tide-mark\nas he could reach. It was a lateral cleft, as good for his purpose as any\nthere. But he selected it not wholly with regard to comfort of body; its\nhigh remove above the mysterious footprints lent it best recommendation.\nFor with growing darkness came a dread upon him; in an access of arrant\nsuperstition he conceived of some unimaginable thing stealing near upon\nwoman's feet. Reason stood up for a mild human presence if any, but on\nground no better than a quicksand, very lacking in substantial elements.\nWhence had those feet come? whither had they gone? He could not imagine a\nhiding too fine for his best vigilance, not in the open at least, in\ndirections that the footprints positively indicated.\n\nAs darkness fell, all the tales that had made the place sinister in name\nand reputation came thronging his mind, assuming an aspect more grim than\nthey ever before had worn. The resolution, the firm reason he had relied\non for defence, began to quail before dread odds. What wonder? That day\nsuch an assault against reason had been made, such a breach lay wide and\nunrepaired, as left self-possession hard bestead. Then was he faithful to\nright worship; he prayed, and mortal terror invested him no longer.\n\nThough faulty, ignorant, superstitious, the young fisher was, a rare\nsincerity ruled his spirit, an essential quality if prayer be to any\npurpose, even great in efficacy by its own intrinsic value.\n\nAs, crossing himself, he lay down and turned to sleep, plainly above the\nsurf the Warders returned him the sound of a far-off bell--of three bells\ntolling together. He knew the voice of the House Monitory. Most\ncomfortable was it, an expression of human commiseration extended to him,\nof special virtue also, he believed, to succour souls against leaguers of\ndarkness. All night he knew, aloft on the cliff in the desolate bell\ntower, a monitress would serve each bell, and two would wait on a\nbeacon-light, and the prayers of the five would not cease for souls of\nthe living and souls of the dead, victims to fell powers of the sea. Ah,\nblessed bells! And ah, dear saints whose names they bear!--St. Mary, St.\nMargaret, St. Faith! The House Monitory prays to the dear saints; but the\nsimple, the ignorant, who go most in peril of that dangerous coast, when\nthey bless three names--St. Mary's, St. Margaret's, St. Faith's--do not\ndiscriminate consciously between the saints whose influence lives in\nheaven, and the bells that ring in evidence of how that influence lives\non earth. He fell asleep.\n\nThe tide came in, crept up the sand, blotted out footprints and weeds,\ncovered anemone pools and boulders, reached the full, turned and ebbed\nback again. The moon rose, and as she mounted the dark clear-cut shadows\nof the rocks shrank. The lad slept the dreamless sleep of healthful\nweariness, till midnight was long past, and a wide stretch of sand lay\nbare again. Then in her course the moon put back the shadows that had\ncovered his face; his breathing grew shorter; he stirred uneasily, and\nwoke.\n\nLooking down, he saw the sand bared of the sea, white and glistening in\nthe moonlight. Quite distinct came the even stroke of the bells. The\nnight wind had chilled him, half naked as he was, so he crept from his\nniche and dropped to the sands below, to pace away numbness. Only a few\nsteps he took; then he stood, and not from cold he trembled. A line of\nfootprints crossed the sand, clear and firm, and so light, that the\ndainty sand-wrinkles were scarcely crushed out beneath them. And now the\nmark of the heel is nearest the sea.\n\nHe knelt down to peer closer, stretched a hand, and touched one\nfootprint. Very fact it was, unless he dreamed. Kneeling still, he\nscanned the broken lights and shadows that clung round the margin of\nrock-girt sand. Ha! there in the shadow moves something white; it is\ngliding half hidden by boulders. A human figure goes there at ease,\nrising, stooping, bending to a pool. Long it bends, then with a natural\ngesture of arms flung up, and hands locked upon the nape, steps out into\nthe full moonlight, clear to view.\n\nThe kneeling boy thrills to the heart at the beautiful terror. Whiter\nthan the sands are the bare, smooth limbs, and the dark, massed hair is\nblack as are the night-shadows. Oh! she comes. Does she see? does she\ncare? The light, swift feet bring her nearer, straight on, without a\nfalter. Her shadow falls upon him, and she stays and stands before him,\nbeautiful, naked, and unabashed as a goddess.\n\nCould she be one of God's creatures? No! Yet because she was shaped like\na woman, youthful pudicity, strong in the boy, bent his head, lowered his\neyes to the ground. He felt a shame she could not know, for her shadow\nmoved, her white feet came within the range of his lowly vision. Perfect\nankles, perfect feet, foam-white, wonderfully set! When the Evil One\nwrought in human shapes, surely his work was ever flawed as to feet!\n\nStill kneeling, he lifted his head, encountered her gaze, and made the\nsign of the cross. She met his eyes with a merciless smile, but before\nthe sign stepped back uneasily; yet her beauty remained unblighted. Then\nmust it be that a sea-witch could be young and fair, of loveliness\ninnate, not spell-wrought to ensnare him. He dreaded her none the less,\nafraid as never he had been in his life before.\n\nAnd yet, because his eyes were steady to meet hers, she read such\ndefiance as she would not suffer. She clapped her hands together, and\nlaughed in cruel triumph till echoes sprang.\n\n'You are a dead man. Do you know?'\n\nHe stood and fronted her boldly now, recovering faith, most needful for\nthe encounter. By what he could see of her face it was cruel and cold as\ndeath itself, and the gleam of her eyes was like the keen, sharp glitter\nof a treacherous sea. For he had not seen, when his eyes had been on the\nground, on her feet, a flash of wonder and pity, for one instant\nsoftening. Wonder at his large-limbed youth remained covert; but his\ndefiant eyes, his gesture, had routed pity.\n\n'Your bones shall lie apart,' she cried. 'I will choose a fair nook for\nyou in the great sea sepulchre. All the bones of other wretches who have\nperished among these rocks lie piled in a common heap--piled high! But\nyou alone of many a score having set foot alive in this my garden--by\nstrength, or courage, or cunning--no matter how, your momentary success\nshall receive some recognition. Maybe, if I remember, when your skull is\nwhite and bare, I will crown it with sea-blossom now and then; and\nwhenever I pass by, cast you a tribute of coral, till the hollows of your\nribs are overfilled.'\n\nHe felt that she had the power to make good her taunting words.\n\n'I have faced death before now,' he answered simply.\n\nShe was angered, and hated him, because he stood upright before her, with\neyes that did not waver, and words like proud disdain. She longed to\nabase him before she compassed his death.\n\n'How shall I take the forfeit? Shall I bid sea-serpents crawl from the\nooze of the deep to crush out your life in scaly folds; or set a watch of\nsharks about my garden to tear your live limbs piecemeal when you venture\nhence; or make the waves my agents to toss you and wrestle with you, to\nbatter out all comeliness of form, and break your bones as reeds beneath\nthe gale?'\n\nLook, tone, gesture, drove home the full horror of her words. Brave as\nthe boy was, the blood forsook his cheek, a momentary tremor passed, and\ninvoluntarily his eyes turned to the eastern sky, whereunder lay a\nwell-known shore, and his home, and the grey-haired couple, who, bereft\nof him, would go to the grave sorrowing. They faced each other in\nsilence, as two wrestlers mark each the other's strength. A strangely\nunequal pair! The tall lad, long-limbed, muscular, broad-chested, the\nweight of whose finger was stronger, than her full-handed might, knew he\nwas powerless, knew at least that no physical strength could prevail\nagainst the young witch; she, slender, smooth-limbed, threatened him with\ntorture and death, strong in witch-might and witch-malice.\n\nKeen-eyed, she had seen that he quailed, and softening, was half minded\nto forgive his trespass.\n\n'Kneel again and pray for your life; perchance I yet may grant it you.'\n\nShould his christened body grovel to her, a witch? A ring of scorn was in\nhis answer.\n\n'Not to you,' he said; 'I kneel and pray only when I love and fear.'\n\nShe hated him again: he meant that her he hated and despised.\n\n'Fool!' she cried, raging, 'you defy me? Do you not know that you are\nwholly in my power?'\n\n'Not wholly--no. Though, because I have done amiss, my life be given into\nyour hands, my soul is in God's.'\n\nShe put her hands to her brow suddenly, as though she had received a\nblow. She stood quite silent. Then she looked about her as though she\nsought vaguely for something she could not find. Anger had passed away.\n\n'Your soul!' she said, on a note of wonder. 'Your soul!' she repeated,\nand broke into a scornful laugh. 'Ay, I remember something: I had a soul\nonce; but it is gone--dead. I gave it in exchange for sea-life,\nsea-power, sea-beauty. I drank of the nepenthe cup, and in it my past was\nwashed out and my soul was drowned.'\n\n'Wretched creature!' he cried, 'better for you had it been your\ndeath-draught.'\n\nShe read in his face horror, pity, loathing, and longed with her whole\nbeing to abase him lower than she was in his eyes. Better than to slay\noutright would it be to break down the self-respect that would not stoop\nbefore her even to escape death. Oh, but she would try for very perfect\nrevenge; not by quick death, cheap and insufficient; not by captivity and\nslow death--no, not yet. He should live, yes--and go free, and then she\nwould conquer him body and soul; biding her time, plotting, waiting in\npatience, she would so make her triumph full, complete, absolute, at\nlast.\n\nInvoluntarily she had drawn away into the shadow of the rocks, leaving\nthe lad standing alone in the moonlight. She saw that his lips moved. He\nwas praying silently, unmindful of her. With her dark brows drawn\ntogether and a smile of scorn she wove cunning plans for his ruin.\nSwiftly she chose her line: for a witch confident, audacious, subtle, it\nwas a game easy and pleasant to play.\n\nAgain the boy saw her stand before him. Her face was mild, her voice low\nand gentle.\n\n'Tell me your name.'\n\n'Christian.'\n\nShe threw back her head with an uneasy movement, but recovering\ninstantly, resumed her part.\n\n'How came you here? and why?' Though not to be lightly reassured, he told\nher frankly. Her dark eyes were intent upon his face; then they dropped,\nand then she sighed, again and again. Her breast was heaving with a storm\nof sighs.\n\n'Oh!' she broke out, with a voice of passionate grief. 'Oh, shame! you,\nwho have the wide world whereon you may range, you will not leave me this\none poor shred of land. A greedy breed it is dwelling ashore, that must\ndaily be rifling the sea of its silver lives, of its ruddy thickets, and\nwill yield no inch in return. And you have outpassed your fellows in\ngreed--you have owned it--you have boasted. Ah! I grant your courage and\nstrength excellent, taken by the measure of the land; but, oh, the\nmonstrous rapacity!'\n\nHer voice broke with indignation. She turned aside and surveyed the\nmoon-white level. Soon she resumed in a quick, low whisper.\n\n'How can I let him go? How can I? Oh dear, fair garden-close, mine, mine,\nall mine alone till now--if your shining pools never mirror me again, if\nyour sands take the print of my foot never again--oh no--I\ncannot--no--no--'\n\nSwift pity responded as her lament sank away to a moan.\n\n'Never think so! One brief trespass made in ignorance is all you have to\nresent--is all you shall have: not a soul shall have word by me of your\nfavoured haunt. Moreover,' he added and smiled, 'I know no man who could\nwin here, were he minded to more strongly than I.'\n\nShe smiled back. 'Then go in peace.' She passed him by to follow the sea.\n\nThis sudden grace struck him dumb. All too briefly glanced and worded was\nit for his satisfaction. So fair at heart she was too. A first young\nflicker of male worship kindled in the boy's eyes as he turned to look\nafter her going.\n\nShe halted, facing, and lifting her hand to him.\n\n'Your boat was broken, you say,' she said as he came. 'I tell you, your\nperil will be more extreme when you try the reefs again for an outlet,\nexcept you have a pilot of me.'\n\n'You!' he said.\n\n'Not I,' she laughed. 'The guide that I shall send will be a gull pure\nwhite, whose flight you shall follow. I have trusted you; do you trust\nme?'\n\n'I will, I will.'\n\n'A strict promise! Though you seem to be going upon certain death, you\nwill trust and follow?'\n\n'I will trust and follow, on my word, strictly kept as the oaths of the\nmany.'\n\n'Your pilot you will know by his call. Listen: \"Diadyomene! Diadyomene!\"'\nshe shrilled like a sea-bird. 'It is my name--Diadyomene--of a good\nsignification for you. I hold your promise; when you hear \"Diadyomene\"\nyou are pledged to follow.'\n\nShe waited for no answer; with a gesture of farewell was away for the\nsea, from the moon-white sand springing into the shadows over the harsh\ninterval of boulders. The vista let a vague moving shape show, lessening\nas she sped across the desolate chasm without. One strip of moonlight lay\nhalf-way, at the edge of the retreating sea. There a swift silver-white\nfigure leapt clear, with dark hair flying an ineffectual veil, with arms\nrising wide in responsive balance to the quick free footing. It was\ngone--gone utterly--a plunge beyond restored her to her sea.\n\nChristian stood motionless long after she had disappeared, so long that\nthe moon paled, that dawn quickened in the east, that day spread wide.\nResponding to the daylight, broad awake rose reason to rebuke his senses\nfor accepting fair words and a fair shape as warranty for fair dealing.\nAnd till midday reason domineered; while he abode the slack, while he\nbattled for shore, while he mended and launched, while the cry\n'Diadyomene! Diadyomene!' swept down on white wings, went before,\nshifted, wheeled; while, so guided, reefs and breakers threatened close\non every hand, fell behind and left him scatheless.\n\nOh, safe upon the waveless blue reason fell prostrate, abashed; and the\nheart of Christian, enfranchised, leapt high in exultation, so that with\nlaughter, and glad praise, and proud and happy calls of farewell, he set\nsail for home and was carried away from the Isle Sinister.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nThough day was high, Lois, the mother adoptive of Christian the Alien,\nsat in shadow, for her small lattice was nearly blinded by the spread of\nvivid fig-leaves jealous for the sun. Flawless order reigned in the\nsimple habitation. No sign of want was there, but comforts were few, and\nof touch or tint for mere pleasure there was none. Over an opened Bible\nbent a face worn more by care than time. Never a page was turned; the\nhands held the edges, quiet, but a little tense. For an hour deliberate\ncalm held.\n\nThen the soft, quick pat of bare feet running caused a slight grip and\nquiver. The door swung wide, not ungently, before Christian flushed and\nbreathless, and a flash of broad day framed with him. He peered within\nwith eager, anxious eyes, yet a diffident conscience made him falter.\n\n'What have I done? Oh, mother!'\n\nSo frail she seemed to his large embrace. In his hand hers he felt ever\nso slightly tremble. He knelt beside her, love and reverence big in his\nheart.\n\n'Why should you trouble so?' he said.\n\nShe laid her hands on his head for pardon. 'Christian,' she said, 'were\nyou in peril last night?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\nShe waited for more to follow, vainly.\n\n'What was it? Where have you been? What have you done?'\n\n'Mother, you were praying for me!'\n\n'Answer, Christian.'\n\n'I gave a promise. I thought I owed it--yes, I think so,' he said,\nperturbed, and looked in her eyes for exoneration. There he read\nintelligence on a wrong tack that his honesty would not suffer.\n\n'No, mother, it was not on a venture--I have come back empty-handed. I\nmean not such a venture as you think,' he corrected, for among the\nfishers the word had a special significance, as will show hereafter.\n\n'Say at least,' said Lois, 'you have done nothing amiss--nothing you\nwould be ashamed to tell me.'\n\n'But I have,' he confessed, reddening, 'done amiss--without being greatly\nashamed--before.'\n\nHis heart sank through a pause, and still lower at his mother's question,\nspoken very low.\n\n'Then I am to know that though I should question, you would refuse an\nanswer to me?'\n\nHe could not bear to utter the word till she insisted.\n\nHer face twitched painfully; she put him back, rose, and went pacing to\nand fro. Helplessly he stood and watched her strange distress, till she\nturned to him again.\n\n'My boy--no--you can be a boy no more; this day I must see you are a man.\nListen, Christian: I knew this day must come--though it seems oversoon to\nme--and I was resolved that so soon as you should refuse any confession\nto me, I--I--must make confession to you.'\n\nShe silenced his pained protest, and went on.\n\n'When my child was born, eighteen years ago come Christmas Eve, our\npriest was no worthy man as now; little good was known of him, and there\nwas bad guessed at. But there was this that none here guessed--I only.\nAnd you must know--it is part of my confession.'\n\nShe spoke painfully, sentence by sentence. After eighteen years her voice\nyet vibrated with hot, live passion.\n\n'My sister--my young sister--came to make her home with us; she would,\nand then she would not, for no cause--and went away. She died--she died\non the night my child was born--and hers. Then I vowed that neither I nor\nmy child should receive sacrament of God from that man's hands. He dared\nno word when I passed by with my unbaptized child in my arms; he met my\neyes once--never after. We were two living rebukes, that he but no other\ncould read plain enough. 'Twas in those days that my man Giles went\nseafaring, so the blame was the more all mine. He indeed, knowing all\nfrom me, would have had the child away to be baptized of other hands. But\nin those days the nearest were far, and I put him off with this plea and\nthat; and come a day, and gone in a day, and months away, was the way\nwith him then. For this thwart course, begun out of fierce resentment, so\nlong as that did not abate, I found I had no will to leave. Yet all along\nI never meant to hold it over a week more, or a week more, or at most a\nmonth more. So two years went, and a third drew on, and that wolf of the\nfold was dead.\n\n'On the day he was laid underground God took my child from me.\n\n'I knew--the first word of missing--I knew what I had done. Conscience\nstruck away all hope. From the print of children's feet we traced how\nthe smallest went straying, how little hands shell filled went grasping\nfor more. I gleaned and keep. They said it was hours before, at the ebb.\nThen the tide stopped us, and that was all.\n\n'In my bitter grief I said at the first that God was just but not\nmerciful; since He took the dear body from me and hid it in the sea that\nI, who had not wrapped it for christening, should never wrap it meetly\nfor the grave. Most just, most merciful! afterwards He sent you to me by\nthe very sea. I knew and claimed you as you lay on the shore, a living\nchild, among twoscore dead men, and none withstood me.\n\n'In ignorant haste, eager to atone, I was loath to believe what the cross\nat your neck told, with its three crosses inscribed, and your sole name\n\"Christian,\" and on the reverse a date. Like a rebuff to me then it was,\nnot realising that I was to work out an atonement more full and complete.\nI have tried. O Christian, it will not be in vain!\n\n'All these years your conscience has been in my keeping; you have freely\nrendered to me account of thoughts and deeds, good and ill; you have\nshared no secret, no promise apart from me. To-day you tell me that your\nconduct, your conscience, you will have in your own sole charge.\n\n'My boy, you do no wrong; this is no reproach, though I cannot but grieve\nand fear. But know you must now, that in you I present to God my great\ncontrition; in you I dare look for His favourable grace made manifest; a\nhuman soul seeks in you to see on earth salvation.'\n\nChristian shrank before the passionate claim. His sense of raw, faulty\nyouth was a painful shame, confronted by the bared remorse of this\naustere woman, whom his heart held as mother and saint. 'O God, help us,'\nhe said, and his eyes were full of tears.\n\n'Ay, Christian,' she said, 'so I prayed last night.'\n\n'Mother,' he said, awed, 'what did you know? how did you know?'\n\n'Nothing, nothing, only great fear for you, and that sprung of a dream.\nOften the wind and the waves have crept into my sleep and stolen you from\nme. Last night I dreamed you lay dead, and not alone; by you lay my\nlittle one, a small, white, naked shape crouched dead at your side. I\nwoke in great fear for you; it would not pass, though the night was\nstill; it grew rather, for it was a fear of worse than death for you.\nYes, I prayed.'\n\nThrough his brain swept a vision, moonlighted, of the fair witch's haunt,\nand her nude shape dominant as she condemned him. The omniscience of God\nhad been faint sustenance then compared with this feeble finite shadow of\nthe same that shot thrilling through the spirit of the boy. So are we\nmade.\n\nOutside a heavy step sounded, and a voice hailed Christian. 'Here, boy,\nlend a hand.'\n\nHe swung out into the clear world. There Giles, empty-handed, made for\nthe rear linhay, and faced round with a puckered brow.\n\n'What the devil have you been up to?'\n\n'Trying her paces,' said Christian.\n\n'Who's to blame then--you or she?'\n\n'Oh, not she!' said Christian hastily, jealous for the credit of his new\npossession.\n\n'Well, well, that ever such a duffer should be bred up by me,' grumbled\nGiles. 'Out with it all, boy. How came it?'\n\nChristian shut his mouth and shook his head.\n\n'What's this? Don't play the fool. As it is, you've set the quay buzzing\nmore than enough.'\n\n'Who cares?'\n\n'And you've broken Philip's head within two minutes of touching, I\nbelieve.'\n\n''Twas done out of no ill-will,' protested Christian. 'A dozen swarmed\nover, for all the world as if she were just carrion for them to rummage\nlike crabs. So I hitched one out again--the biggest by preference,--and\nhe slipped as you called to speed me off here. If he took it ill, 'tis no\ngreat matter to square.'\n\n'I would for this once he or any were big enough to break your head for\nyou as well as you deserve,' said Giles savagely.\n\n'We're of a mind there,' said Christian, meekly and soberly.\n\nGiles perversely took this as a scoff, and fumed.\n\n'Here has the wife been in a taking along of you; never saying a word,\ngoing about like a stiff statue, with a face to turn a body against his\nvictuals; and I saying where was the sense? had you never before been\ngone over a four-and-twenty hours? And now to fix her, clean without a\ncause, you bring back a hole to have let in Judgment-day. Now will come\nmoils to drive a man daft.\n\n'And to round off, by what I hear down yonder, never a civil answer but a\nbroken head is all you'll give. \"Look you there now,\" says Philip, and I\nheard him, and he has a hand clapped to his crown, and he points at your\nother piece of work, and he says, says Philip: \"Look you there now, _he_\nwas never born to drown,\" and he laughs in his way. Well, I thought he\nwas not far out, take it either way, when I see how you have brought the\npoor thing in mishandled. It passes me how you kept her afloat and\nbrought her through. Let's hear.'\n\nThough Giles might rate, there was never a rub. Years before the old man\nand the boy had come to a footing strangely fraternal, set there by a\ncommon despair of satisfying the strict code of Lois.\n\nAgain Christian shook his head. Giles reached up a kindly hand to his\nshoulder.\n\n'What's amiss, boy? It's new for you to show a cross grain. A poor spirit\nit is that can't take blame that is due.'\n\nChristian laughed, angry and sore.\n\n'O Dad!' he said, 'I must blame myself most of all. Have your say. Give\nme a taste of the sort of stuff I may have to swallow. But ask nothing.'\n\nGiles rubbed his grey locks in perplexity, and stared at the perverse\nboy.\n\n'It can't be a venture--no,' he thought aloud. 'Nor none hinted that.\n\n'Well, then; you've been and taken her between the Tortoises, and bungled\nin the narrows.'\n\nChristian opened his mouth to shout derision at the charge, gasped, and\nkept silence.\n\n'There's one pretty guess to go abroad. Here's another: You've gone for\nthe Land's End, sheared within the Sinister buoys, and got right payment.\nThat you can't let pass.'\n\n'Why not that?' Christian said, hoping his countenance showed no guilt.\n\n'Trouble will come if you don't turn that off.'\n\n'Trouble! Let them prate at will.'\n\n'Well,' complained Giles, 'I won't say I am past work, but I will own\nthat for a while gone I had counted on the near days when I might lie by\nfor a bit.'\n\n'But, Dad, that's so, all agreed, so soon as I should have earned a boat\nof my own, you should have earned holiday for good.'\n\n'Then, you fool, speak clear, and fend off word of the Sinister buoys, or\nnot a soul but me will you get aboard for love or money.'\n\nEager pride wanted to speak. Giles would not let it.\n\n'You think a mere breath would drive none so far. Ay, but you are not one\nof us, and that can't be forgot with your outlandish hair and eyes. Then\nyour strength outdoes every man's; then you came by the sea, whence none\nknow, speaking an unknown tongue; and then----' Giles paused.\n\nThe heart of the alien swelled and shrank. He said very low: 'So I have\nno friends!'\n\n'Well,' Giles admitted, 'you would be better liked but for a way you have\nsometimes of holding your head and shutting your mouth.'\n\nHe mimicked till Christian went red.\n\n'Do I so? Well,' he said, with a vexed laugh, 'here's a penance ready\nagainst conceit. The Tortoises! I indeed! and I must go humble and dumb.'\n\n'Such tomfoolery!' cried Giles, exasperated. 'And why? why? There's\nsomething behind; you've let out as much. I don't ask--there, keep your\nmystery if you will; but set yourself right on one point--you will--for\nmy sake you will.'\n\nChristian looked at the old man, bent, shrunken, halt, and smiled out of\nbland confidence.\n\n'The burden shall not light on you, Dad. And has no one told you what I\nhave done single-handed? just for display of her excellent parts, worked\nthe boat and the nets too, and hauled abreast of any. Not a boat that\nwatched but cheered the pair of us.'\n\n'I heard, I heard,' said Giles ungraciously. 'A show off for an hour or\ntwo. What's that to work week in, week out?'\n\nChristian was looking aside. He saw the head of Lois leaning out,\nattentive to all.\n\nHe took a heavy heart out of her sight. 'She does not trust me,' he said\nof her face.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nScattered far and wide over the fishing-grounds lay the coral fleet.\nThere, a solitary, went Christian to a far station. Yet not as an\noutcast. He had tried his strength against his world, and the victory\ninclined to him. For a week he had been baited hard and cut off, as Giles\nhad forewarned; and through it all he had kept his own counsel, and his\ntemper, and his place with the fleet, defiant, confident, independent.\nAnd luck attended his nets. Therefore another week saw unsubstantial\nsuspicion waning; scoffs had their day and died of inanition; and the\nboy's high-hearted flouting of a hard imposition annulled its rigour. Not\na few now would be fain to take their chance with him. For Giles's\nconsolation he had not rejected all advances, yet as often as not he\nstill went alone, declining another hand. Thrift and honest glorying in\nhis strength so inclined him, though a perverse parade may not be\ndisclaimed. Yet none of these accounted for a distinct gladness for\nsolitude that grew unawares.\n\nWhat colour were her eyes? The moonlight had withheld certainty, and he\nhad not given his mind to it then. Dark, he knew, to match her hair: rare\neyes, like pansies dewy in shade?\n\nDown swung with their swags of netting the leaded cross-beams from his\nhands into the shadowed water, and its dark, lucid green was faced with\neddies. Down, deeper than the fathoming of his eyes, plunged his spirit,\nand walked the sea's mysteries in vain imaginings. Mechanically he set\nthe boat crawling while he handled the guys. A trail of weed swam dim\nbelow; it entangled. His wits said weed, nothing but weed, but his pulse\nleapt. Day after day, not to be schooled, it had quickened so to\nhalf-expectancy of a glimpse at some unguessed secret of the deeps. He\nwas glad to be alone.\n\nBody and mind he bent to the draught, till the cross-beams rose, came out\ndripping up to the gunwale, and neatly to rest. A ruddy tangle hung among\nthe meshes. He paused before out-sorting to resolve an importunate doubt:\nwas this more than mere luck to his nets? It was not the first time he\nhad had occasion to debate an unanswerable question. The blank westward\nseas, near or far, returned no intelligence to his eager survey, nothing\nto signify he was not quit of obligation.\n\nA witch she was, of an evil breed, one to be avoided, pitied, and\nabhorred. No conscious impulse moved Christian to seek her again, though\nher beauty was a wonder not to be forgotten, and she had dealt with him\nso kindly. Yet of the contrary elements of that strange encounter the\nfoul stood unchanged, but the fair had suffered blight, because from the\nsmall return demanded of him his mother's heart had taken hurt. A full\nconfession would indeed but change the current of distrust. He sighed,\nyet smiled a little; he would have to own that a wish persisted to know\nthe colour of those eyes.\n\nFrom the sweat and ache of toil he paused a moment to see where he lay.\nUnder a faint breath from the south he had been drifting; the fleet also\nhad drifted to leeward.\n\nWithin a grand enclosure, satisfying coolness and peace, and splendid\nshade reigned, for no man's solace and reward.\n\nThe sun rode high, and the west breathed in turn, bringing a film of\nhaze. A delicate blue veil, that no eye could distinguish from the\nmelting blue of sea and heaven, an evanescent illusion of distance, hung,\ndisplacing the real.\n\nAbove the boy's head a seagull dipped and sailed. It swooped low with a\nwild note, 'Diadyomene, Diadyomene,' and flew west.\n\nChristian upturned a startled face. The drifting fleet had vanished; he\nwas alone with the gracious elements.\n\nToo loyal of heart to dream of excuse, he rendered instant obedience to\nthe unwelcome summons, headed round, hoisted every stitch, and slanted\naway after the white wings. Yet he chafed, angry and indignant against so\nunwarrantable an imposition on his good faith. Go he must, but for a fair\nunderstanding, but to end an intolerable assumption that to a witch\ncreature he owed payment indefinitely deferred at her pleasure.\n\nHe owed her his life; no less than that she might exact.\n\nHe found he was smiling despite a loath mind and anxious. Now he would\nsee of what colour were her eyes.\n\nThe young witch Diadyomene leaned forward from a rock, and smiled at the\nwhite body's beauty lying in the pool below. She was happy, quivering to\nthe finger-tips with live malice; and the image at her feet, of all\nthings under heaven, gave her dearest encouragement. Her boulder shelved\ninto a hollow good for enthronement, draped and cushioned with a shag of\nweed. There she leant sunning in the ardent rays; there she drew coolness\nabout her, with the yet wet dark ribbons of seaweed from throat to ankle\ntempering her flesh anew. No man could have spied her then.\n\nBy a flight of startled sea-birds, he nears. She casts off that drapery.\nThrough the gorge comes Christian, dripping, and stands at gaze.\n\nWith half-shut eyes, with mirth at heart, she lay motionless for him to\ndiscern and approach. She noted afresh, well pleased, his stature and\ncomely proportions; and as he neared, his ruddy tan, his singular fair\nhair and eyes, she marked with no distaste. The finer the make of this\ncreature, the finer her triumph in its ruin.\n\nHe came straight opposite, till only the breadth of water at her feet was\nbetween.\n\n'Why has \"Diadyomene, Diadyomene\" summoned me?' he said.\n\nAgainst the dark setting of olive weed her moist skin glistened\nmarvellously white in the sun. A gaze grave and direct meeting his could\nnot reconcile him to the sight of such beauty bare and unshrinking. He\ndropped self-conscious eyes; they fell upon the same nude limbs mirrored\nin the water below. There he saw her lips making answer.\n\n'I sent you no summons.'\n\nChristian looked up astonished, and an 'Oh' of unmistakable satisfaction\nescaped him that surprised and stung the young witch. He stood at fault\nand stammered, discountenanced, an intruder requiring excuse.\n\n'A seagull cried your name, and winged me through the reefs to shore, and\nled me here.'\n\n'I sent you no summons,' she repeated.\n\nA black surmise flashed that the white bird was her familiar, doing her\nbidding once, this time compassing independent mischief. Then his face\nburned as the sense of the reiteration reached his wits: she meant to\ntell him that he lied. Confounded, he knew not how to justify himself to\nher. There, below his downcast eyes, her reflected face waited, quite\nemotionless. Suddenly her eyes met his: she had looked by way of his\nreflection to encounter them. Down to the mirror she dipped one foot, and\nsent ripples to blot out her image from his inspection. It was a mordant\ntouch of rebuke.\n\n'Because I pardoned one trespass, you presume on another.'\n\n'I presume nothing. I came, unhappily, only as I believed at your\nexpressed desire.'\n\n'How? I desire you?' She added: 'You would say now you were loath to\ncome.'\n\n'I was,' he admitted, ashamed for his lack of gratitude.\n\n'Go--go!' she said, with a show of proud indifference, 'and see if the\ngull that guided you here without my consent will guide you hence\n_without my consent_.'\n\nInsult and threat he recognised, and answered to the former first.\n\n'Whatever you lay to my charge, I may hardly say a word in defence\nwithout earning further disgrace for bare truth.'\n\n'You did not of yourself return here? For far from you was any desire\never to set eyes on me again?'\n\nSo well did she mask her mortal resentment, that the faint vibration in\nher voice conveyed to him suspicion of laughter.\n\n'On you--I think I had none--but for one thing,' he said, with honest\nexactitude.\n\n'And that?'\n\nReluctantly he gave the truth in naked simplicity.\n\n'I did desire to see the colour of your eyes.'\n\nShe hid them, and broke into charming, genuine laughter.\n\n'Do you know yet?' she said.\n\n'No, for they are set overdeep for a woman, and the lashes shadow so.'\n\n'Come nearer, then, and look.'\n\nHe stepped straight into the pool knee-deep and deeper, and with three\nstrides stood below. She bent her head towards him with her arms upon her\nknee, propping it that a hand might cover irrepressible smiles. Her\nbeautiful eyes she opened wide for the frank grey eyes to consider. Many\na breath rose and fell, and neither offered to relinquish the intimate\nclose.\n\nBeautiful eyes indeed! with that dark, indescribable vert iris that has\nthe transparent depth of shadowed sea-water. They were bright with happy\nmirth; they were sweetly serious; they were intent on a deep inquiry into\nhis; they were brimming wells not to be fathomed; oh, what more? what\nhaunted their vague, sad, gracious mystery?\n\n'Are you satisfied yet of their colour?' she asked quietly, bringing him\nto a sense of the licence he indulged.\n\n'Of their colour--yes.'\n\n'How, then, are you not satisfied?'\n\n'I do not know.'\n\n'Bare truth!'\n\n'What thoughts, then, lay behind while you looked down so?'\n\nShe kept her mouth concealed, and after a pause said low as a whisper:\n'Looking at your eyes, I wondered if they would alter greatly when your\ntime came--to die.'\n\n'Ah, no, no,' he said, startled; 'how could you!' His mind only caught\nthe suggestion to reflect upon her transparent eyes stricken with the\ntragedy of death. From so gentle a tone he could not gather a sinister\nhint; moreover, she smiled to effect a blind.\n\n'Now that your quest is over, I in turn desire certain knowledge. Gratify\nme, and so shall your rash footing here to-day stand redeemed.'\n\nShe signed for him to follow, and led the way by rock and pool to the\nentrance of the cave. There upon a boulder she leaned, and pointed him up\nto the rock above, where the rough inscription he had set there remained\nunimpaired.\n\n'That is your handiwork?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'What does it mean?'\n\nHis heart thumped. To her he had addressed that legend, not knowing what\nshe was.\n\n'I do not know that you are fit to hear.'\n\nHer just indignation refrained from him, and his heart smote him.\n\n'Ah! I should not judge. Hear then!' and he read.\n\nFor an instant her face fell, troubled, and she moved restlessly.\n\n'And who are They? Who is the Father?'\n\n'God the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth.'\n\n'He did not make me.'\n\n'But He did.'\n\n'Say that He made you if so you please: I speak for myself. Pass on now.\nWho is the Son?'\n\n'Jesus Christ His Son, our Lord, who suffered and died to save us from\nour sins.'\n\n'Suffered and died!' she exclaimed, and then added, 'I have no sins.'\n\n'Ah, you have!' said Christian, aghast.\n\n'You may have, may be, but not I. Pass on. Who is the other one?'\n\n'The Holy Ghost the Comforter.'\n\n'Whose comforter? Theirs? yours? not mine--I need no comfort.'\n\nWhen he said, 'O poor, lost soul, God have mercy!' she rose to passion.\n\n'You shall not say so; I will not endure it. And why should you look at\nme so? and why should you speak it low? Am I to be pitied--and pitied of\nyou, who but for my pity would by now be a shredded and decayed patch\nsunk deep?'\n\n'My body.'\n\nDiadyomene recovered herself instantly, recalled to the larger conquest\nshe designed.\n\n'Yet pass on again: there is more--\"At your service!\" Whose?'\n\n'Yours.'\n\n'Mine! That is not possible,' she said coldly; 'nor of the whole can I\nmake sense.'\n\n'It means that I offered to serve her whose footprints I had\nseen--yours,--and pledged myself by the sacred names that she should have\nno fears.'\n\n'Fears!'\n\nChristian flushed painfully. It was not possible to intimate to her how\nhe had considered that a woman unclothed would surely shrink from a man's\npresence.\n\n'You make for a simple end by strange means!'\n\n'How is it,' she resumed, 'that since quite freely you pledged yourself\nso sacredly to my service, you came most unwillingly when you thought I\nhad need of you?'\n\nBefore her penetrating gaze shame entered.\n\n'For your need I would have come gladly; yes--I think so--in spite of\nincurring worse; but for your pleasure----'\n\n'Not, for instance, had I wished to see the colour of your eyes?'\n\nIt was but poor sport to put him out of countenance. Quite kindly she\nasked, 'What now have you incurred that worse should be to dread?'\n\nHe began of the name 'Sinister,' and of all it implied. She laughed,\nasking him why he should expound that. He went on to the definite ills\nthat had beset him, because the injury to his boat betrayed him to\ninquisition.\n\n'But how?' she asked; 'you admitted nothing, else you failed in your\npromise to me.'\n\n'No, but challenged, I could not deny I had dared here.'\n\n'Why not?'\n\n'It would not have been true,' he said, puzzled.\n\nDiadyomene opened her eyes wide and laughed.\n\n'And do you use your powers of speech only to say what is true?'\n\n'Yes,' he said, indignant. 'How else?'\n\n'Now I,' she said, 'use speech to disguise truth, with foul or with fair,\nor sometimes to slay and bury it out of sight.'\n\n'Then, when you declared you had not summoned me, was that untrue?'\n\n'If I now answered \"Yes\" or \"No,\" you could be no nearer satisfaction;\nfor you have not the wit to weigh my word with mood, disposition,\ncircumstance, to strike a balance for truth.'\n\nChristian pondered, perplexed and amazed at that perverse argument.\n\n'I would another were here to unreeve this tangle you are in. There is\none, wise, tender, a saint.'\n\nDiadyomene levelled her brows.\n\n'A woman! And you love her!' she said, and astonished the inexperienced\nboy.\n\n'Above all! She is mother to me.'\n\nHe said timidly: 'Of all evils incurred by my presumption here, the worst\nis that between her and me your secret stands a bar to perfect\nconfidence. I did not guess it would gall her so. I may not tell you\nhow.'\n\n'Yes, tell me.'\n\n'I cannot.'\n\n'A secret.'\n\n'Not strictly; some day I might, but not now.'\n\nShe shot a keen glance, suspicious by that heedless reservation that,\nafter all, he was shrewdly playing his own game. He went on.\n\n'With her your secret would be absolutely safe; and if her you would but\ninclude----'\n\n'But I will not,' she said peremptorily, 'nor shall you take counsel with\nher, nor come back well charged for convincing me of what you may be\npleased to call sin; for presently we part for ever--for ever, alive or\ndead.'\n\nThat struck silence for a minute. Then Christian straightened and said:\n\n'I have then much to say first. I have a message to you.'\n\n'To me--a message!'\n\n'The message of the Gospel. In the name of the Father, and of the Son,\nand of the Holy Ghost.'\n\n'Ah yes,' she said; 'we were to return to that. \"Suffered and died,\" you\nsaid of one--the Son.'\n\nThe young gospeller took up his task void of all vain conceit; but\nhumility, simplicity, and honesty alone could not prevail over the\nquick-witted witch when she was bent on entangling him. A long hour he\nlaboured with the story of the Redemption, she questioning to his\nbewilderment, involving him in contradiction, worsting him again and\nagain, though he would not know it; till, weary of harassing, she heard\nhim in silence, with an unmoved attention that was worse discouragement.\n\nHis own incompetence he had known, but he had not thought himself so\nunstable that the pressure of patient eyes could weigh down his clear\nsense; that the lifting of night-black hair in the light wind, the curve\nof a neck, the slow play of idle hands, could distract him. He knew he\nhad failed utterly, that he did not deserve to succeed before ever her\ncomment began.\n\n'O the folly of it!' she said with wonder and scorn. 'Truly I am well\nquit of a soul if it bring intelligent creatures of flesh and blood to\nworship, as highest excellence conceivable, a joyless life, a degraded\ndeath. For others? The more foolish. And you would have me repent and be\nconverted to that? I--I repent, who have gained this?'\n\nShe rose to her feet, flung up head and arms; her bosom heaved with a\nbreath of ecstasy, her lips parted, her eyes shone; the glory, power,\nmagic, of the deep flashed into visible embodiment in her. The perfect\nwoman, possessed by the spirit of the sea, unawares took worship of the\nboy's heart. To seal her supremacy, a wave leaping in the gorge broke to\nhim the unnoted advance of the tide. He thrilled as though the sea had\nactually responded to her passion.\n\nTo a new, wonderful note of power and sweetness she began, with a face\nand gesture that alone were eloquent:\n\n'O poor mortal! the deeps to you are abysses of death, while the\nstorm-winds, ravening, hunt you. Oh, 'tis pitiful! Deep, deep in the\nheart of the sea dwells eternal peace, and fear is dead to all who dwell\nthere. Starry sea-blossoms grow stilly, by the winnowing of broad fins\nstirred only. When stormy terrors fall with black night on you above,\nwith me below is a brooding blank of light and sound, and a darkness that\ncan be felt lulls every sense. From that deep calm I float, I rise, to\nfeel the upper pulses of the sea; to meet strong currents that in the\nvery hair wake vigour; to leave silence far underfoot; to taste of the\nglorious battle of wind and wave. Strong, foam-headed bearers take me,\nwhirl me as I will. There is madness, rout, and drunken frenzy of the\nelements for honour of my presence. O the roar! O the rains! O the\nlightning!\n\n'Deep, deep in the heart of the sea the broad glare of this full sunlight\nis softened into a mystery of amber twilight, clear and cool; and\nquivering cloud-shadows dim it to pearl, and sunset throbs into it a\nflush. There the light of the white moon is a just perceptible presence\nof grey silver to tell me a night is cloudless. She draws me--she draws\nme--to her I yearn. My heart, my love, my life, rise large and buoyant in\nworship of her. To her fair face you have never looked up as I, at poise,\nwith earth far below and the air fathoms above. Ah, so large and near and\ngracious she lies! In the faint swell of a calm she shrinks and expands,\nas though she breathed with me--with the sea; a ripple of wind will comb\nher into quivering lines of silver; and the heave of a wave shatter her\nto fragments that vainly slide and dance to close back into the perfect\ndisk. Involuntarily your hands would snatch at the near splinters of\nliving silver. I rise through them to rarer air, and lo! my moon has fled\nup immeasurably, and shines remote, concentrated, placid.\n\n'Deep, deep in the heart of the sea, within unhewn walls, are splendid\ncourts, where marbles discover their shy translucence, and drink mellow\nlife from widespread floors of sand, golden, perfect, unwrinkled and\nunstained from age to age; and drink milky fire that hangs where nebulous\nsea-stars cluster that night may never prevail. Inmost wait vacant\nshrines to gratify worship of sleep and dreams--pure amber one, great\ncrystals one, and rainbow spars. One there is of moony mother-of-pearl,\nmeetest covert of rest, when life grows a little weary of conquest and\nplay, and greatly enamoured of dreams. Ah, dreams! You with a soul--can\nyou dream? Nay--but I will not know.\n\n'Deep, deep in the heart of the sea hide brine-bred monsters; living\nthere, dying there; never touching the thin, vacant air, never facing the\nbroad eye of heaven. Quick death by the grip of huge jaws meets the\ndrowning there. Your might--yours--is puny: you never could cope with the\nfierce sea-wolves. And your limbs are heavy and slow: you could not play\nwith the dolphin and mock at the shark. To me come all by love or fear.\nThe frailest shape afloat, that fears a shadow, into my palms drops from\nthe waves; and uncouth herds leave browsing to hustle their finned heads\nunder my hands. And the terrible breeds, the restive, I catch by the mane\nand school, against their resistance driving sharp ivory hard between the\njoints of their mail. How they wrestle and course, as pride of their\nstrength is mine, and joy of their speed is mine--ah! most supremely\nwhen they most dispute it. Your eyes declare wonder, since your broad\nlimbs could match the banded strength of a score of my slight mould. I\ngrant it here, where the touch of the earth and the touch of the air are\ndull, faint, weak, to flesh and blood nourished of the deeps; but life\nand vigour and strength transcendent evolve from the embrace of the salt,\ncold sea, from deep indraughts of keen brine.\n\n'Down in the deepest lies sleeping the oldest of living creatures, placid\nin a valley of the sea. His vast green coil spreads out for leagues;\nwhere his great heart beats slow the waters boil; he lifts an eyelid, and\nthe waves far, far above are lit with phosphor light. Runs a tremor\nbecause of his dreams, I sink to the weedy ears and chant peace,\nunaffrighted, sure that no fret can withstand my song. Shall he once roar\nand lash with all his spines, your coasts will crumble and be not.\n\n'What, you--you with a soul, get quickened breath and eager eyes from a\nfew empty words, as though even in you woke the sting of a splendid\ndesire for entering the reserves of the sea, with intimacy and dominion\nlike mine. No--no--stand off! content you with the earth and air.\nNever--never shall you lay your hand upon my breast, nor set your lips to\nmine, nor gain the essential word, for you count your soul as priceless,\nand never will let it go.'\n\nShe ceased. Christian suddenly crossed himself, turned his back, and went\nfrom her and her magic. The forward tide checked his feet; its crisp\nmurmur and great undertones uttered a voluble, soft chorus on that\nstrange monologue. He came to himself to know that he offered outrageous\noffence to virgin pride, unwarrantable, and far from his mind. Her free,\nbold words were too coldly proud for any thought of disrespect. He turned\nagain hastily. She was gone.\n\nHe sprang to the brimming cave. 'Diadyomene,' he called; 'Diadyomene,'\nand followed up the moving water; but he had no definite sight of her,\nand got no answer till he came to the great cavern. No witch she looked\nbeside the jasper mirror, but just a slender, solitary maiden. She did\nnot lift her pensive head, nor move nor look at him as he drew to her.\n\n'Diadyomene,' he supplicated, 'have out on me all that is in your mind.\nCall me dumb-squint, beetle-head in mind and manners.'\n\nWith a quite impassive countenance she answered gently:\n\n'It is in my mind that the sun is low and the tide high. It is in my mind\nto put you in a way where both may yet serve for your safe homing.'\n\nOut came a sovereign smile of humour, sweet raillery, and condonation\nblended, instant on her investigation of his eyes. Humbled and exalted at\none fine touch, Christian's judgment surrendered to her. She hindered a\nword of it.\n\n'I can show you an outlet that will take you to a sheltered reach behind\nthe landward walls of this Isle. So will you evade the worst races of the\ntide. Furthermore, from the mainland to the open you will need aid.'\n\nHe answered unsuspiciously that of her grace he had learned the reefs\nfairly.\n\n'Ah yes, and conned through but once,' she said smoothly, and eyed him.\n\n'Conned twice--once either way.'\n\n'I sent you no summons,' she expostulated quietly.\n\n'Do you think that I have lied to you?'\n\nShe did not answer.\n\nWith indignant emphasis he repeated, 'Do you think I have lied?'\n\n'Do you think _I_ have?'\n\nNot a quiver crossed her front with the mendacious alternative; not even\nfor laughter, when the face of Christian lent ample occasion; for, as a\nfish with a barb in the gullet not to be spewed out, was he impotent and\nspun.\n\nWhile still he gasped, Diadyomene slid forward into the deep and bade\nhaste for daylight. Fine swimmer he was, but his strokes compared ill\nwith an effortless ease like a wing-wide bird's. Refraction gave her\nlimbs a lovely distortion, and pearly soft they were through the beryl\nwash. Behind her merged head the level just rocked and quivered; cleft by\nhis chin it rebelled in broad ripples. She turned her head, curious of\nhis clumsy method; she could not forbear a smile; she reverted hastily\nbeyond the blind of her floating hair.\n\nBut he could not follow where she offered to lead, for she dropped her\nfeet, and sank, and walked the under-floor of rock, entering a deep\ngallery. He dived, entered after, then breath gave out, and he shot back\nto gasp.\n\nShe presented a face of grieved surprise. 'There is another way to the\nsame end,' was all she said on his deficiency.\n\nHe mounted after her then, by shelf and ridge, an intricate, retiring\nway, till she showed him a dark gulf at their feet.\n\n'Leap!' she said, 'no hurt lies there.'\n\nUtter blackness lay below, repugnant to his nerves; yet not therefore he\nstayed.\n\n'Diadyomene,' he said, with desperate temerity, 'you do not forbid me\never to see you again.'\n\nDaylight struggled feebly in there. Her answer was not direct, and it\nlaboured.\n\n'I have no--desire--ever to see you again.'\n\nQuick for once: 'Have you a desire never to see me again?' he said, and\nheld his breath.\n\nHe saw her step to the verge, lift her arms, and poise. She delivered an\ningenious masterstroke to wound.\n\n'Be under no such apprehension. I will convince you: for your assurance I\nwill go first.'\n\n'Hold back!' with a savage sob cried Christian; leapt, and dropped with\nstraightened feet perpendicular in the gulf.\n\nWith a thin sigh and a vigorous kiss two elements received his descent.\nDiadyomene leaned over the dark, and called 'Farewell.' The word was\nechoed back by him hoarsely; and again from further distance it came,\nringing sound.\n\nBeneath her breath she said, 'Some day I will have grey eyes weeping\nbefore my face.' Then laughter possessed her, and away she sprang, to\nrevel in the release of peals of wicked delight.\n\nVery cold-hearted the sea-bred are, and their malice is very keen.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nLois drew forward a young creature, whose dark head did not fully uplift.\n\n'Christian,' she said, 'this is your cousin Rhoda.'\n\nHe blurted out 'Cousin!' in astonishment. Two faces stiffened; the girl's\neyes declined.\n\n'My niece,' said Lois briefly, 'and so cousin by adoption.'\n\nGiles kicked his heel, so he guarded his tongue duly.\n\nConsiderate of embarrassing the girl with open observation, he took note\ndiscreetly how kin was just legible on the two faces. The eyes of both\nwere set overdeep for womankind; they were alike in the moulding of the\nbones; but the face of Rhoda gave promise of a richer beauty than could\never have been the portion of Lois. For a minute it bloomed in a vivid\nblush, for their eyes met as she, too, by stealth was observing him for\nhis great height and breadth and alien complexion.\n\nWhen afterwards his mother said, 'You know whose child she is?' he\nanswered, 'Yes.'\n\n'Christian, I thank God for my good man.'\n\nHer sense he could not adjust till long afterwards, when a fuller account\nof Rhoda's past was given to him. Now Giles told but little.\n\n'No, she had never set eyes on her before. I? Oh yes, I had--the pretty\nlittle piece! But when I bring her in, and have said no more than one\ncough, the wife goes clean past me, and has the girl in her arms, and\ncalls her by her sister's name, and sobs hard and dry like a man. It\nturned me silly and rotten, it did. I knew for a minute she didn't fairly\nknow it was not somehow her sister; no older than Rhoda she was, poor\nthing, when she last stood under our roof; and their last parting had not\nbeen over tender. Well, I had messed the business--I knew I should,--for\nthere was the wife going on, saying things, and there was Rhoda getting\nscared and white, and putting out a hand to me. And then I go one worse,\nfor I get hold of her, and say, \"She takes you for your mother, child,\"\nthat the wife may get the hang of it; and at that down she sits sudden,\nall of a shake. But the poor wench says, \"My _mother_!\" for--well, I\nsuppose I had lied sometime--she thought she was the truly begotten\norphan of an estranged brother. Nothing would come handy but the\ntruth--the wife being there; so I even told it all. Yes, I did, though it\ndid seem cruel hard for a young wench to have that story from a beard.\nBut it worked well; for when the poor child knew not how to bestow her\neyes, nor to bear the red of shame, up stands the wife to her, just woman\nby woman, and looks fierce at me, and to her Rhoda closes all a-quiver,\nand in a moment the wife has kissed her, blight and all, and Rhoda is\ncrying enough for both. That was over an hour before you came in on us,\nwhen out jumped \"cousin\" and \"niece\" to clinch the business. I knew she\nwould never go back on them. To think that all these years--well--well.'\n\n'Well, Dad--all these years?' said Christian, incited by Lois's words to\nbe curious of Giles's conduct; for he was a comrade of easy imperfection,\nnot insistent of the highest rectitudes, nor often a consistent exemplar\nof Lois's strict precepts. Giles drew in.\n\n'A grape has grown from a thorn, that's all,' he said.\n\n'But how came you----'\n\n'And a pumpkin has overgrown too. Here--clear out, you've left a moderate\nbody no room to turn.'\n\nSo Christian understood he was to be excluded from full confidence. Loyal\nevery inch of him, he respected Giles's reserve and never questioned\nRhoda herself. He did but listen.\n\nClear, colourless years, regulated under convent control, was all the\npast she knew; serene, not unhappy, till the lot of a portionless orphan\nlay provided for her in a sordid marriage, that her young instinct knew\nto be prostitution, though the Church and the world sanctioned it as a\nholy estate. To her this blessed transplantation into a very home gave a\nnew, warm atmosphere that kindled fresh life. The blanch bud expanded and\nglowed, fresh, dewy, excellent as the bloom of her name. And very sweet\nincense her shy gratitude distilled.\n\nIt was to Giles she gave her best affection, to Lois most reverence and\ndevotion. But to Christian went a subtle tribute, spontaneous even in an\ninnocent convent-girl, to an admirable make of manhood; some quick\nshivers of relief that a certain widower with yellow teeth did not\npossess her. And in Christian thrilled an equivalent response; though he\nknew not how Rhoda's maiden charm, her winning grace, her shadow even,\nher passing breath, evoked unaware, with a keen, blissful sting at heart,\nvivid remembrance of the sea-witch Diadyomene.\n\n'She likes the old hunks best of the lot,' said Giles with complaisance.\n'My bright little bird! There's never a one of you young fellows stands\nto cut me out.'\n\nHe cocked an eye at Christian.\n\n'Now Philip comes along, and will have her for seeing the caught\nfrigate-bird. And off she is flying, when back she skims and will have me\ntoo. Oh! but he looked less than sweet, and he's a fine figure too for a\nmaid's eye, and a lad of taste--he is.'\n\n'He! May be, for his fancies are ever on the brew, hot or cold,' said\nChristian in scorn.\n\n'She's a rare pretty wench, and a good,' said Giles, with a meditative\neye.\n\n'She is: too rare and good for any of Philip's make; an even blend of\nconceit and laziness is he.'\n\n'That's so, that's so,' returned Giles coolly to this heat, 'but I don't\nsay he would make a bad pair for just so much as the boundary walk.'\n\n'How!' said Christian 'but she will walk with me--she's my cousin.'\n\n'Have you asked her?'\n\n'No.'\n\n'Well, I think she's worth an asking. She's shy, and she's nice, and\nshe's got a spirit too, and more than one, I wager, won't be backward.\nRhoda! Rhoda! why, what's this grave face you are bringing us, my\npretty?'\n\nThe girl's eyes addressed Christian's with childlike candour and wonder.\n'Why is it,' she said, 'that the mother of that tall Philip doubles her\nthumb when you pass by?'\n\nHe flushed with knit brows, but laughed and jested: 'I guess because she\ndoes not like the colour of my hair.' But Rhoda had noted a pause, and a\nquick turn of the eye upon Giles.\n\n'When the boundary is walked, Rhoda, will you pair with me?'\n\n'Oh!' she said, 'Philip wanted to bespeak me, and I said him no, till my\nuncle should have had the refusal of me first.'\n\nShe curtsied before the old man in bright solicitation.\n\n'Ah! my maid, here's a lame leg that can't manage the steep. You must\ntake my proxy, Christian here.'\n\n'But that's another matter,' she said; 'I doubt if I be free.'\n\nChristian's face clouded, but he had no notion of pressing her to\nexchange obligation for inclination. When he was away, Rhoda asked,\ntroubled and timid:\n\n'I have vexed him. Is it for this? or that I was curious----'\n\n'About that doubled thumb? Not that. He'll clear that to you himself if I\nknow him. Well, then, I will, to spare it him.'\n\nHe set forth Christian's position and the ordeal not yet quite suspended.\n\nRhoda went straight after Christian. She presented both hands to him.\nWith a glowing cheek and brave eyes, 'I will walk with you!' she said.\n\n'I am proud, cousin! But so? What of Philip?'\n\nWith a saucy sparkle she said, 'Do not flounces become a girl's wear,\nthen? You shall see. Or do you expect a broken head of him?'\n\nThere was more of childish mischief than of coquetry in her face.\n\n'Stay, Rhoda, I have to tell you something.'\n\n'No need--no need. Can you think I have not heard?' and she left him to\nslow enlightenment.\n\nThereafter brotherly solicitude and responsibility developed in\nChristian, and his liking for the bright young creature grew warm, in\nnatural degree to match the shy preference and grateful glow that\nanswered for her appreciation.\n\nSoon, so soon, his jealousy, his honest, blameless jealousy, came to be\npiercingly sweet to the girl's heart. How else, when day by day Giles\ninstructed her of his worth with tales of his champion feats, and of all\nhis boyhood, its pranks and temerities, its promise by tender honour and\nfortitude of the finest quality of man; when her own observation told her\nthat in the ranks of youth he was peerless, in strength, in outward\nfashion, in character, in conduct; generous, gentle, upright; of a\nsensitive conscience that urged extremes of pride and humility; and\nbrave. And to her this worshipful youth condescended; nay, but it was\neven with deference that he honoured her and attended. One touch of\nsaintliness that had rarefied him was dispelled to her naughty content.\n\n'Rhoda, my child,' said Lois, 'where is the Book? Bring it.' And away the\ngirl went.\n\nLois had found that the Bible, formerly left mostly to her sole use, had,\nsince Rhoda's coming, made unseen departures and returns. Well pleased\nwith the girl's recluse piety, she was awhile patient of its want.\n\n'Do you leave the Book outside, child? When it is out of hand, you should\nlay it back here.'\n\n'It was in the linhay,' said Rhoda, 'and not out of hand. And do you\nthink 'tis I who take it? 'Tis Christian.'\n\n'Christian!' said Lois, in a voice of such surprise that Rhoda was\ndisillusioned. 'Then do you never study the Book alone?'\n\n'No,' confessed Rhoda, 'I but listen to your reading and the Church's.'\n\nLois was disquieted. She had ever secretly deplored the infirm masculine\nconstitution of Giles and Christian, who accepted from her a spiritual\nration with never a sign of genuine, eager hunger of soul. Yet this\ndeparture was little to her liking. Though fain would she have recognised\nthe working of the Spirit, she dreaded rather that this was no healthy\nsymptom in Christian's raw development. A cruel stroke to her was this\nsecond reserve of independence, invading the fastest hold of a mother's\ninfluence. Back came the earlier conviction that her boy's withdrawal\nfrom her must be for wrong-going, and the strain of watchful scrutiny\nand prayer returned. It had slackened when her God had shown such favour\nas to take out of her soul that iron that for years had corroded there,\nthat she had vainly striven to expel.\n\nShe approached Christian with a diffidence that was painful to him to\nperceive; she recommended counsel in any difficulty--not her own, she\nsaid sincerely, though with a touch of bitterness. He was embarrassed by\nher close, tender surveillance.\n\n'I have already taken counsel,' he admitted, 'and I think I have got\nunderstanding--at least I have got certain information by heart.'\n\n'Of his Reverence?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'Christian, you are not of the doubters?'\n\n'No, mother, of the ignorant.'\n\nHer piercing eyes examined his.\n\n'Who has told you so? You did not know it of yourself. What evil\ncommunication corrupts you?'\n\nThere was no answer but the sufficient one of the boy's conscious face.\nThere was that in the fire of it that inspired Lois to groan in her\nheart: 'My boy has met a daughter of perdition.'\n\nShe did not miss her Bible again.\n\nLois's divination of the truth preceded Christian's, though again into\nthe presence of Diadyomene had he made his way. There he went\nhigh-hearted on a service that sanctioned all risks--the recovery to the\nfair witch of her lost soul, fair too he was sure.\n\nWhen he summoned her to baptism with the first breath, she laughed him\noff. No, no, she would have none of it. Let him tell her first that of\nthe nature of a secret, as he said he would some day. And Christian,\nseeing it was indeed germane, delivered the story of the child cut off\nunbaptized, to the mother's undying remorse. She rewarded him.\n\n'And she would have cared for the little dead body to kiss! Ah, poor\nmother!' she said softly and regretfully, so that his eyes grew moist.\n\n'Diadyomene, if I die of the sea, would you be so far pitiful as to\nrender to her my body again?'\n\n'No,' she mocked; 'I myself would keep it. Did I not promise as much at\nthe first?' Then she derided the poor limitation that would die of the\nsea through foolish preference of a soul.\n\nHe took up his mission with all his best powers well ordered; but to no\npurpose he persisted--she fenced too well for him. She began by denying\nany value to her soul; before they ended she challenged him to prove his\nown existence; and, to his amazement, he found that he could not against\nher, and rude demonstration he did not dare.\n\nHe brought off with unsuccess, great joy by her least favour, sharp\nstings by her least resentment, yet no suspicion that the sea-witch had\nhim in the toils.\n\nGiles mending Rhoda's shoes clacked fondly: 'A pretty little foot she\nhas. Such a pit-a-pat little pair I never did see.'\n\nAway to sacred white sands flew Christian's thoughts: he wondered if\nslender footmarks lay there, and which way set. A little folly came into\nhis mind: to plant his bare feet over those dints pace by pace--delicate\nnear paces; for the soles of his feet to walk intimate with the mould of\nhers. The little folly in his mind extended, set also his palm to the\nsand, his cheek, his brow. He came to himself from foot to face tingling,\nand amazed.\n\n'A sweet, pretty wench!' was Giles's refrain. 'Eh?'\n\nChristian assented.\n\n'One more to my taste does not tread shoe-leather. Eh?'\n\nWith a singular expression Christian gave a 'No' of sufficient emphasis.\nHe looked at Rhoda and grew red.\n\nRhoda and Christian went amidst the fig-tree and trained it up to the\neaves. Lois and Giles looked on from the porch; when they spoke, it was\nlow as the rustle of the boughs. 'Young Adam and Eve' slid to Christian's\nears. He looked at Giles; saw the fond, complacent smile and the shrewd\neye; saw his mother's face, grave, concerned, tender; glanced down at\nRhoda, and met her shy, happy eyes. He understood, and like lightning\nshot the revelation that with body and soul he loved Diadyomene.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nHe found her curved in a nest of sleep full in the sun. Her breath was\ngentle as childhood's, and as guileless her face. Her head was regal, for\nthe hair dried crowned it in a dark coil wound and bound with wisps of\nsplendid pearls.\n\nThe young lover's passion resolved itself into prayer. As never before in\nhis life, with concentration and fervour he importuned his God for the\nredemption of her lost soul. The shadow of his crest edged her shoulder;\na movement brought to the line of her cheek the shadow of his. At that,\nprayer failed for an amorous instant; eclipse dipped across her brow;\nsleep parted; she was looking at him.\n\n'Ah, Grey Eyes!' she said, and smiled.\n\n'Be gracious by one little word, Diadyomene. Why never yet will you call\nme by my name?'\n\n'Your name? No, 'tis an ill-made name. Put it away and bear another that\nI will choose.'\n\n'I could not. Yet what would you choose?'\n\n'Diadyomenos, may be!' she said softly, smiling.\n\nThe honour of the consort name caught his breath.\n\n'But I could not; not even for that could I lay aside the name I had in\nbaptism.'\n\n'Baptism ever!' she frowned. 'Inadvertently did I utter Diadyomenos.\nAsleep, I had dreamed--of you--enfranchised.'\n\nFrom scorn to regret she modulated, and his blood sang to the dominant\nclose.\n\nShe strained to dislocate sleep, on her back-thrown head planting both\nhands. Her fingers, with careless grip, encountered the pearls; they\nsprang scattering, and her dark hair drifted down. With languid\nindifference she loosened and fingered the length of soft splendours;\nanother lustrous morsel flew and skipped to the boy's feet. Covetous\nlonging fastened upon it, not for its rare beauty, its immense value. A\nthing that had passed through her hands and lain in her hair was to him\nbeyond price; and yet he forbore sternly to seek after possession,\nbecause an honest scruple would not allow that an orient pearl could\ncome to his hands but by magic purveyance.\n\n'If a name were to seek for me?' she was pleased to inquire, on the watch\nfor colour which sprang when her words were gracious.\n\n'I know,' he said, 'what most fitly would express you--oh! too well, for\nit is over a defect that secretions of the sea have constructed a shape\nof perfect beauty; the name of a pearl only--Margaret. If you--when you\nshall come to be baptized----'\n\n'You dare!' she said, and froze him with her look.\n\n'It has come into my mind that you may be a traitor.'\n\n'No!'\n\n'Hear now! Look me in the eyes and deny it if you can. It is for the sake\nof another that you seek after me; that persuading, beguiling, if you can\ncoercing me--me--who spared you, tolerated you, inclined to you, you\nwould extract from the sea an equivalent for her loss, and proclaim that\nher reproach is taken away.'\n\nThere was such venom in look and tone, that his face grew strained and\nlost colour.\n\n'For your sake first and foremost.'\n\n'By no means for your own?'\n\n'Diadyomene, I would lay down my life for you!' he breathed passionately.\n\n'But not give up your soul--for me?'\n\nEver so gently she said this. The boy quivered and panted against\nsuspecting the words of their full worth. She directed her eyes away, to\nleave him to his own interpretation. The sunlight turned them to gems of\nemerald; the wind swept her hair about her clear throat; one hand clasped\nthe curve of her knee. Never yet had he touched her, never felt so much\nas a thread of blown hair against his skin. One hand lay so near,\nstraitly down-pressed on the rough rock, fragile, perfect; shell-pink\nwere the finger-tips. He said 'No' painfully, while forth went his hand,\nbroad, sunburnt, massive, and in silent entreaty gently he laid it over\nhers.\n\nCold, cold, cold, vivid, not numbing, thrills every nerve with intense\nvitality, possesses the brain like the fumes of wine. The magic of the\nsea is upon him.\n\nRocks, level sands, sky, sun, fade away; a misty whirl of the sea\nembraces him, shot with the jewelled lightnings of swift living\ncreatures, with trains of resplendent shapes imperfectly glimpsed, with\nrampant bulks veiled in the foam of their strength. A roar is in his\nears, in all his veins; acclaim and a great welcome of his presence\nswells from the deep, all life there promising to him dominion.\nIntangible and inarticulate the vision spins; and through it all he\nknows, he feels, that beneath his palm lies the cold white hand of the\nfairest of the sea-brood; he perceives dimly a motionless figure seated,\nand the hand not in his clasps her knee, and the eyes look away, and the\nhair drifts wide. Then to his ears through the great murmurs comes her\nvoice, soft and low and very clear, but as though it has come from a\ngreat way off: 'Lay your hand upon my breast--set your lips to mine--give\nup your soul.'\n\n'Christ! Christ! ah, Lord Christ!'\n\nDiadyomene's hand lay free. Christian stared at his palm to find that it\nhad not come away bleeding. His lips were grey as ashes; he shook like a\nreed. With haggard eyes he regarded the serene visage where a smile\ndreamed, where absent eyes did not acknowledge that she had verily\nspoken. Virtue was so gone from him that he was afraid, of her, of the\nsun. He dropped to his knees for escape.\n\nWhen he lifted his head, it was to solitude and long shadows. Her feet\nbruised his heart as he tracked the signs of her going; for they had\napproached him, and then retired; they had gone toward the sea, and\nhalf-way altered back by two paces; they had finished their course to the\ngorge and again turned; there they had worked the sand. A little folly!\nEnacted it was a large frenzy.\n\nYet he took not a single pearl away.\n\nHeavily drove the night, heavily drove the day over Christian,\ncomfortless, downcast, blank. Was her going with anger and scorn divided\nby pity? or with stately diffidence? adorable, rendering him most\ncondemnable.\n\nThe dredge rose and swung in to great sighs of labour. Black coral!\n\nIn choice branches hard from the core, all rarity was there; delicate\npink and cream, scarce green, and the incomparable black. Precious--oh!\ntoo precious for the mart--this draught was no luck, he knew, but a gift\ndirect from Diadyomene; a goodwill token of her generous excuse sent for\nhis solace. Fair shone love in the sky, and the taste of the day grew\nsweet. No scruple could hold out against this happy fortune.\n\nWhen the black coral was sighted by Giles from the quay, he raised such a\nshout as gathered an eager knot. In a moment one flung up a hand, palm\noutwards, to display the doubled thumb. Every hand copied. Christian saw\nand went hot with anger, too plainly expressed in his dangerous eyes. Yet\nwould he have little liked to see his treasures go from hand to hand.\n\n'Not for present trade, I reckon?' asked Giles.\n\n'No,' said Christian, 'my price can bide,' and he carried his prize away\nwith him home.\n\nNot even Rhoda could admire and handle that coral void of offence; Lois\nand Giles only. One little branch, shell-pink, took the girl's fancy; she\nturned it over, frankly covetous. Christian saw by her shy eyes and\npretty, conscious smile she made sure he would presently say, 'Keep it,\ncousin.' He could not. A gift, fresh from the cold white hands of the\nsea-maid he loved, he could not give straightway into the ardent hold of\none who offered, he feared, to him her young love.\n\nSo sweet and dear had Rhoda grown as cousin, as sister, he hated the\nsuspicion that she could care for him more than he desired or deserved;\nhe hated himself when, loving her most, for her sake he was cold and\nungracious. Rhoda, wounded, resented the change with a touch of malice;\nshe allowed the advance of the handsome idler Philip, no friend of\nChristian's liking, she knew, though to her his faults were not patent.\nThat gift withheld, on the morrow began Philip's benefit. Giles and Lois\nlooked on, and neither wholly condemned the girl's feminine practice.\nThen what could Christian do, harassed and miserable, but return to\nbrotherly guardianship to keep a dear heart safe from the tampering of an\narrant trifler.\n\nToo fatally easy was it to win her away, to keep her away. She came like\na bird to the lure, with her quick, warm response, making Christian\nwretched; he gladdened a little only when he encountered Philip's scowl.\n\nCompared with this sore trouble, but a little evil to him seemed the\nsharp return of the public ban for comment on Diadyomene's gift. He was\nready to flout it as before, not heeding more ominous warnings plain in\nbent thumbs, in black looks, in silences that greeted him, and in\nmutterings that followed. A day came when hootings startled him out of\nhis obstinate indifference, when from ambush stones flew, one with bloody\neffect; a later day, when a second time he had brought in too invidious\na taking.\n\n'I sent no gift!' had declared Diadyomene, with wide, steady eyes, but\nthat time Christian did not believe her, though hardly with blame of the\nuntruth. On the morrow her second gift rose. When the boy sought her\nagain she disclaimed once more; and curious of his perplexity and of his\ngashed face, drew from him something of his plight. Her eyes were\nthreatening when she said, 'Fling away, then, what you fear to take.' To\nher face then he laughed for pride and joy that she should prove him.\nWhen that same hour came round, he drew up her third gift.\n\nHe cared too little that in the interim a mischance had fallen against\nhim; he had at last been descried fairly within the Sinister buoys, and\nchased by an unknown sail far west, escaping only under dark to circle\nfor home beneath midnight stars.\n\n'O damnation!' was Giles's exclamation on the third prize. 'This won't\ndo--'tis too like devil's luck. Ah, lad!' He faltered, caught at\nChristian, and peered in his face: 'You have not--you have not--got\nfee-penny of them below!'\n\nChristian reeled. 'Dad, O dad!' he gasped.\n\n'Steady, lad, steady! Here come spies as usual. There's no stowing a\nscrap unseen. Ah, they gape! Here, clear off home with this confounded\nstuff. I'll see to the nets.'\n\nRhoda's eyes shone like stars, her cheeks were like angry dawn. She\nhovered about Christian with open devotion, at once tender and fierce,\nplaying the child for some cover to that bold demonstration. Christian's\nheart shrank, for he could not understand her nor appreciate her. But\nGiles had a tale to unfold that brought light. Rhoda had come in flaming\nfrom a stormy passage with Philip. He had gained her ear to hint a\nwarning against Christian, justifying it against her passion with a\ndefinite charge and instance that he had the evil eye. She, loyal in\ndefence, carried away into attack, had rashly invaded with exasperating\nstrokes.\n\n'She's made bad blood, I doubt--the little hawk!' said Giles. 'He's\nmortal savage now, and there's mischief enough brewing without.'\n\n'What do you know?'\n\n'A sight more than I like, now I've gone to pry it out. It looks as if\nnot a beast has gone and died by nature or mischance, not a bone gets out\nor broken, but there's a try to fix it on you with your evil eye. We've\nbeen in the dark overlong--though an inkling I must own to.'\n\n'I too, by token of doubled thumbs.'\n\n'Christian,' said the old man with authority, 'never again bring in the\nblack or the green or any rarity; you can't afford it again.'\n\nChristian's head rose defiantly.\n\n'Drop your airs, you young fool! Why, your inches are enough against you\nas it is. If you weren't so uppish at times, there would now be less of a\nset against you.'\n\n'On my word,' protested Christian, 'I have borne much and been silent. I\nknow the young cur I owe for this scar, and have I laid a finger on him?\nTo turn the other cheek is beyond me, I own,' he added, with some honest\nregret.\n\nIt so fell out that on the very morrow that same toleration witnessed\nagainst him fatally. From the snap of a rabid dog a child died, under\ncircumstances of horror that excited a frenzy against Christian, who had\nbeen seen handling the beast after the night of stoning, when the\nvictim's brother it was who had marked him for life. So his iniquities\ncrowned the brim, to seethe over with a final ingredient when mooting\ncame along the coast of a trespasser off the Isle Sinister, by timing,\nincontestably, the alien.\n\nWhen the fleet lay spread dredging, Christian, obedient to direction from\nGiles, stationed his boat in the midst; but one by one his neighbours\nedged away, till he lay isolated deliberately. This manifestation of\nmislike was not unexpected, but it galled that weary day when the burdens\nof his life were weighing heavy.\n\nExceeding the gross of more solid apprehensions, Rhoda's face haunted him\nto disquiet. By an unjust transfer, shame possessed him, even as when\nDiadyomene had advanced naked and unabashed before his diffident eyes.\nIndefinite reproach clamoured all day at his conscience, What have I\ndone? what have I done? And a further unanswerable question, What can I\ndo? beset him to no purpose.\n\nBefore his mind hung a vision of prompt, delicious escape, which he did\nnot banish, only because he did not think it could seriously attempt his\nwill. But the hours told so on the aching boy, that for once he abandoned\nhis own strict standard of fortitude, and his distress cried aloud to\nsolitude, 'Diadyomene! O my love, Diadyomene, Diadyomene!'\n\nFirst, a silver shoal close beneath his eye leapt into air and slid\nagain; then his stare discerned a trail of weed upfloating tranquilly:\nno weed, two dim hands part it to the showing of a moony countenance\ngraciously inquisitive, and pearly shoulders brightening as they rose,\ntill glistening white to the air Diadyomene lay afloat cradled by happy\nwaves.\n\n'Diadyomenos!' she said softly, and her eyes invented dreams.\n\nFor an instant, so mad was Christian rendered by this consummate favour,\nthat he clutched the gunwale on an impulse to over-leap it finally. Like\nhounds straining on the leash, natural passions tried the control of the\nhuman soul. He dared not speak.\n\nDiadyomene drifted gently lower with never a word more, and lower yet\nimperceptibly, till her upturned face began to dim. She poised. Ah,\nbeautiful reluctance! Unaffronted? O heart that aches, that breaks to\ngive worthy response! He saw her lips moving; he knew what speech they\nframed as certainly as though he could hear: your hand upon my\nbreast--your lips to mine--demanded of him.\n\nChristian fell back, and crouched, and lay sobbing dry-eyed until\ntwilight drew.\n\nHome he came. By the way none greeted him of all he met, and a many they\nwere for the hour; and none hooted after him, but shrilling whistles at\nhis back made him turn to wonder what was afoot. Quick figures dodged\npast him and sped.\n\nApprehension dawned when he crossed the threshold to find two scared\nwomen, and Giles ghastly and bandaged.\n\n'Who did this?'\n\n'An accident, an accident,' muttered the old man, seeing the boy ablaze\nwith wrath and pity before ever he heard a word.\n\nOut came a tale of outrage: while the house was empty, Lois and Rhoda\naway bleaching, the linhay had been forced, and the coral laid there,\nChristian's store of precious, sacred coral, looted entire. Giles, coming\non the scene, had been tripped up and left for stunned by one unaware how\nan unhappy blade had gashed his fall.\n\n'And who did it?' said Christian, hoarse with his passion.\n\n'Don't say!' ordered Giles, and the women were mute.\n\n'I will know,' he cried, stamped out ungovernable, and beat away.\n\nThe three looked at each other, pale and fearful. Then Giles staggered to\nhis feet. 'Help me after him, wife.'\n\n'Rhoda,' said Lois, 'go quick for his Reverence--if he be abroad, follow\nhim quick.'\n\nSeething with just indignation, Christian sped reckless after vengeance.\nAlarm of his coming sprang up and flew before him along the shore. Thence\nstruck the ring of axes, thence shone the flare of torches, showing a\nblack, busy swarm. Like a wounded beast he yelled out once: the Beloved,\nhis boat, lay there under torture and dismemberment. Then he hurled upon\nthe throng, raging to kill.\n\nTwo went down instantly, damaged for life under his bare hands, but the\nrest by sheer weight of numbers overbore him. Axes rose imminent, but\nthere was no room for a sure stroke in the close, desperate wrestle.\nThrice Christian gained his feet again; then had he no need to strike any\nman but once; those he gripped in the downfall had broken bones of him.\nCries and curses thickened, he only fought mute. Foul strokes on him were\nfair enough: they struck him together, they struck from behind, they\ncaught him by the knees and toppled him down, they fell on him prostrate,\nthey trampled and kicked. He was on his feet again, breathed and fain,\nwhen one from behind got in a stroke at his head with a spar; then he\nflung up his hands and dropped among them.\n\nWhen Christian came to himself he was made fast hand and foot. Torches\nand dark figures flashed and swayed before his giddy sight; all round\nthey hemmed him in. He wanted sense, remembrance, and settled vision.\nWhat meant this savage, cruel hate looking out of every face? these\nyells, curses, and accusations dinning at his ears? He was bound upright\nin the midst--where? no, where! One came and wrenched off remnants of his\nshirt; another stood by making ready. The wretched boy understood, and\nstrained and struggled desperately for freedom.\n\nSuch a scene was not unprecedented among the fishers. According to a\nrough, unwritten law, the punishment of thieves they took into their own\nhands, and enforced confession and restitution. Scrupulous to a fault,\nhonourable, proud, Christian maddened at the intolerable degradation\nthreatening. A thief's portion dealt out to him! the shame of it he could\nnot bear.\n\nThe circle of pitiless, excited eyes watched the swell of splendid\nstrength expended to exhaustion against stock and cord. He could not\nescape from bonds; he could not escape from life; with bleeding wrists,\npanting, trembling, sane, impotence confronted him with his inevitable\naward.\n\nThe shame of it he had to bear. And he could not even effectually hide\nhis face.\n\nHe heard the common formula when confession was demanded concerning\nunlawful takings. Truly his eyes looked wicked then, and his teeth showed\nin a vicious grin. He heard more, charges so monstrous, that he deemed\nthem sprung of mere insolent mockery, or else of delirium. Dead silence\nfell, that he might answer. He would not. Oh, frenzy was returning,\nrevolting him against meet despair.\n\nThe pain that he had to bear broke upon his body.\n\nOf all the watching throng, none pitied him, none questioned the just\nrigour of any penal extreme upon him. To the long distrust and the later\ndeveloped abhorrence, the day had brought forth a new fierce lust after\nvengeance, exasperated now the might of his hands, superhuman, had done\nsuch terrible work. None but with pulse of satisfaction must keep time to\nthe stroke of the subjugated boy's long torture; none but would reckon\nlong fortitude to his last discredit.\n\nHow long? How long? As, motionless and bleeding, he gave no sign of\nfailing endurance, resentment kindled against his indomitable obstinacy,\nand silence for his benefit no longer held. A mutter ran: 'The devil has\ncared for his own--he cannot feel.' And to make sure that he had not\npassed from consciousness, a torch was shifted to show his face. It was\npale as death, and beaded with great sweat; but his eyes were wide and\nsteady, so they cursed and went on.\n\nThe long-suffering northern spirit, the hardy carcass that did not give\nout, excelling the make of the south, outstayed the patience of\nanimosity. High upon a clamour swelling anew one cried, 'Try fire!'\nsnatched a torch, and tested the substance of an arm. It was Philip. When\nChristian's eyes struck at his he defied them with his thumb.\n\nYelled a confused chorus: 'There, see there! proof enough. Make an end of\nthe creature! Send him back to the devil by the way he came!' The note of\ndeath was recognised of the victim; he blessed it, for his agony was\ngreat.\n\nBut a little way on was the stretch of sand where, fourteen years before,\nthe sea had cast up a bright alien child. Thither was drawn the\nhalf-killed boy; and there, made fast to a mooring-post, with his face\nset to the sea, knee-deep in the tide, he was left to die. Along the\nshore pickets were formed to preclude a miscarriage to justice; and\nthere, while the sea trod forward, the flame of mob violence died down to\nits underglow of settled vengeance, and torches were douted and silence\nfell as the eyes of men began to shirk their fellows', and their ears to\nprickle at a word.\n\nChristian lifted his head to comprehend immense clear spaces of sea and\nnight, and a black triumph. Not death was before him now, but a new life.\nHopeless patience departed before passions during long torture\nsuppressed, and infernal laughter rolled in his heart at the prospect of\na consummate vengeance when the powers of the sea should work with his\nwill. He knew she would come. Undoubting the extent of her knowledge, her\npower, her gracious surveillance, he knew she would come, to offer a\nsplendid exchange for death. O excellent compensation! The touch of her\nhand, the touch of her lips, the opening world of vast delight, and\ntherewith power to satiate all his hates.\n\nWith every breath torment heaved over him still; raging thirst was there\nfor fierce affliction, the cruel sting of brine touched his wrists,\nappalling in its promise of intolerable exasperation to raw wounds. Would\nshe come, as before, with sweet despatch if he could call 'Diadyomene'?\nBut he would not; because of other ears he would not utter her name; nor\never because of other eyes entreat her from the cover of the wave. Ah\nGod, he prayed, give me heart to endure!\n\nHis sight was unsteady, so that the whirling of the stars and the\nexaggerated swell of the slow waves vexed his failing brain. But he dared\nnot close his eyes, lest, ignoring her advent, he should lose her and\ndie.\n\nThe disworship of an earlier hour, the comfortless void days, the bitter,\nhard reserves, drew form from delirium; they stood in rank, hateful\npresences, deriding the outcast: but to pass, he knew, as a sleeper can\nknow of a dream--to pass when the magic of the sea should flow through\nhis veins. My past washed out and my soul drowned.\n\nAh God, he prayed, grant that I remember! Ah God, he prayed, grant\nthat I forget! Strong hate and strong affection rose dominant in\nturn. Stronger rose affection: through waves of delirium the dear\nhome faces came and looked at him; the reproach of their eyes\npierced deep. What have I done--what can I do? he challenged. God\nkeep you all, dears! Oh, shut your eyes, there is no other way. And\nstill they looked--Lois--Giles--Rhoda--sorrow of condemnation,\nsorrow of pity, sorrow of amazement; till before their regard he\nshrank and shuddered, for they delivered to his conscience a hard\nsentence--his God, their God, willed that he should die.\n\nThe tide was up to his belt before ever the human soul staggered up to\nwrestle. Too swiftly now it rose; too short was the span of life left. He\nwas not fit to die: evil impulses, passions black as murder, were so live\nand strong in him. He could not die--he could not. To be enforced from\nmere life were bitter; to choose noble death were bitter; but to choose\nsuch a death as this, pitiful, obscure, infamous, to eschew such a life\nas that, glorious, superlative,--too hard, too cruel a trial was this for\nhuman endurance--he could not do it.\n\nYet he prayed voiceless: Diadyomene, Diadyomene, haste to deliver me; for\nthe will of God roars against me, and will devour.\n\nFor pity, dear faces, keep off, or she may not come. She would quit me of\nthis anguish--who could will to bear this gnawing fire? They, too, shall\nhave torment, and die with horrors. The waves shall batter and break,\nand sharks shall tear their live limbs piece-meal, and down in the ooze\ncoils of serpents shall crush them out. Ah God! ah God! I love her so.\nWould hell be undesirable if you were there, or heaven perfect if you\nwere not? O poor soul, poor soul! who will have mercy? Kiss her, mother,\ndear; upon her breast lay your hand when she comes. O poor mother, who\nhad not a little dead body to kiss! Go, go--I cannot bear your eyes. I\nwant----Ah, ah, the power and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.\n\nHe surrendered, and the tide was breast high.\n\nSolitude drifted back, and cleared vision without and within. The\ndespotism of torture succeeded on the exclusion of throes more virulent.\nHe prayed for swift death, yet shrank humanly as promise swung hard at\nhis face. He prayed against Diadyomene, and yet strove with wide eyes to\nprevent the darkness, quailing, pulsing at gleam of wave and sweep of\nweed. He would give up his soul if it were possible, not for carnal\nexchange, but that hers might revive.\n\nWould she of the cold sea nature care greatly for his death? Would she\nremember where the outcast body lay, and fulfil her word uttered in scorn\nto lay sea-blossoms about the skull? Dead, void of pain, unresponsive to\nher touch could he be! O fair, calm life of the sea! O fair, calm\nsea-queen! No, no, not for him--death, only death, for him. God's\nmerciful death.\n\nThe enfeebled brain fails again; sense and will flicker out into misty\ndelirium; from helpless memory a reek distils, and the magic of the sea\nis upon him.\n\nThrough waves heaving gigantically to isolate him from the world, the\nflash and spin of eager life beckoned the blood left in him; great\nstrengths loomed, his on the loosening of knots of anguish; a roar ran in\nhis veins, noise and tremor beating through him, fluid to it but for his\nbones. Came trampling and singing and clapping, promising welcome to\nineffable glories, ravishing the heart in its anguish to conceive of a\nregnant presence in the midst. Coming, coming, with ready hands and lips.\nCame a drench, bitter-sweet, enabling speech: like a moan it broke weak,\nthough at his full expense, 'Diadyomene.' Came she.\n\nDelirium flashes away. Face to face they hang, shattered life and lost\nsoul. He shudders hard. 'Deliver us from evil,' he mutters, and bows his\nhead for a fatal breath and escape.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\n'Too late. Wait till the tide go down. What was there?'\n\nHearts quailed at the sound that drove in, for it was not the last voice\nof a spent mortal, but shrill, but fierce, but like the first voice of\nhis indignant ghost. Four only did not recoil; the rest, half-hearted\nbrought to the rescue, urged again: 'Wait till the tide go down,' pulling\nback the two women from insane wading. But Giles was forward, staggering\nin the tide, floundering impotent against it; and his Reverence turned\nupon them as intolerable a countenance as when through his black flock he\ndrove, threatening the curse of Heaven. Therefore two, though loath, swam\nout to fetch in the boy's body. They cut the ropes from him, and lifted\nhim along with the waves to hard land.\n\nRhoda shrieked at sight of the deathly inertness and the rent flesh, and\nhopeless, fell to an anguish of weeping; but Giles and Lois, tearless,\nmute, with hand and ear over his heart, sought and sought for sign of\nlife, finding none. Pitiless aid brought a torch, and held it to dispel\nall hope of a flicker of life. Could any look on the sad, serene face and\nstill pronounce him worthy of death, worthy the burial of a dog? They\ndid, even those whom kindness to the parents had constrained far, for\namong themselves they said: 'Persuade them away, and his Reverence. Best\nto serve the body with its grave quick and meet, in the sea, lest they\nwant it laid in holy ground.' But Lois, who would not believe her son yet\ndead, and Giles, who could not believe him still alive, would have and\nhold him, living or dead, and none with heart of flesh could withstand\nthem. So the limp, lifeless burden was taken up along the weary shore,\npast the doors of the street, close shut every one, and delivered to the\nweak shelter of home for the nonce.\n\nAgainst life and decent burial had Christian's last desire been: these to\nimpose was all the service great love for him could conceive, though the\nbroken body, dreadful to see, dreadful to handle, made silent appeal\nagainst a common valuation of life. Through tireless effort to provoke\nbreath despair hovered, hour-long, till response came in a faintest\nflutter of life at lips and heart; and chafed with cordials and wrapped\nabout with warmth, the shadow of pain drew over his face and weak spasms\nflexed his hands as tyrannous vitality haled back the reluctant spirit\ninto bondage. His eyes opened upon them with sense and recognition, a\nfeeble effort to move fetched a groan, and again he relapsed deathlike.\nSo and again all through the long night watches the desperate debate of\nlife and death lasted.\n\nThrough close window and door the sigh of the night and the moan of the\nfar sea spoke continually, and covered to dull and finite ears the sound\nof the sunrise coming over the distant hills.\n\nNot dead, and not dead, and yet again not dead! With that recurrent\nstroke of sense was welded again the mortal unit half gone to\ndissolution. Day came filtering in on wan faces brightened to fearful\nhope, for Christian assuredly lived and would live: consciousness held,\nand his eyes waked and asked. The four knelt together, and thanked their\nGod aloud for his life, tears running free; he turned his head away in\ngreat despair, knowing that he was condemned.\n\nWhose prayers should prevail, theirs or his? He must die: he would die.\nBut every hour brought firmer denial to his pitiful desire for death.\nWhat had he done, his anguish cried up to heaven, that his God should\nwithhold an honest due? For death and its blessed ease and safety had he\nrenounced the glorious sea-life, not for this intolerable infliction of a\nlife miserable, degraded, branded for ever with memory of one disgraceful\nhour.\n\nFever declared that always still he stood within a circle of fire; his\nskin was hot with the heat of men's eyes; the stroke of his blood was\npain and shame that he had to bear; always, always so it would be.\n\nHealing came to close the wounds of his body, but the incurable wounds of\na proud spirit gaped and bled hot and fresh, and even under the pitying\neyes of love quivered and shrank. A sound from the outer world, of\nfootstep or voice, crushed him intolerably under fresh weights of\ndegradation.\n\nThe sound of footstep and voice would start hasty barring of shutter and\ndoor, hinting to him that his doom of life was yet remittant.\n\nWith infinite caution, and despite his great weakness and pain, he got\nhis knife into his own secret keeping. Out of sight it lay bare for a\nfond hand to kiss its sweet keen line: life held some blisses it could\npromise him yet.\n\nIndefinite revenge was not enough: the thought of actual elaborate murder\ngrew so dear, he would not for any price forgo it. Himself would be\nsatisfied, his hands, his eyes, his ears, with the circumstances of a\nbloody despatch from life of him, and him, and him, each witness of his\ntorture and shame, beneath whose remembered eye his spirit now shrieked\nand writhed. Let him so doing perish body and soul. So low in the dust\nlay he, the dear hope of Lois, because the heart of his pride was broken.\n\nImperfectly he heard a young voice passionately urging for vengeance,\nretribution, redress, asking after the law of the land against a brutal\ncustom carried to unaccustomed extreme.\n\nRedress! His eyes he shut when his lips bade the girl believe that he had\nno desire to invoke any earthly powers to avenge his wrongs. On his hand\nher tears fell like rain; she bowed her head at his knees, with wonder\nwithin at the christian saint of so perfect a heart. Back to bare steel\ncrept his hand, tear-wet.\n\nBut his fierce hate betrayed him. A gust of fever and madness lifted him\nup, enraged at the body unready, the burnt right arm unready; his left\nhand and the devil in him snatched out the knife, and drove it at the\nplanks on his level in one instant of exuberant capacity. In and out\nagain it went; he sobbed a great laugh for the cost and its sufficiency,\nand with spent force fell back a-sweat. Swift in trod Lois, and he was\nstill, with the blade out of sight, not knowing that clean through the\ninches of wood the bright blade had looked in a line of sunlight straight\nto his mother's eye.\n\nShe was not gentle then, nor cared for his hurts; with quick mastery of\nhim while he cowered and winced in nerveless collapse, she discovered and\nplucked away his naked paramour. Dumb-struck she stood in accomplished\ndismay. Into the impotent wretch defiance entered; with insolent\nassertion his eyes affronted hers; unmasked, from his face looked the\nvery truth of hatred and lust of blood, shameless at exposure.\n\nMother and son drew breath for battle.\n\n'What name shall I call you by?' she cried. 'You have borne that name of\nChrist all your life, and now do renounce His cross.'\n\n'Diadyomenos' sang to him out of the past.\n\n'Your face is the face of Cain already, not the face of my son, my dear\nson given me by the mercy of God. It is like the curse of God!'\n\nShe fell on her knees and grasped him hard. Her prayers came upon him\nlike terrible strokes; heaviest to reach him were prayers to her God. He\nwould not answer nor say amen; his own one passionate prayer had been\nunregarded, and he hardened his heart.\n\n'I took you from the death of the sea, and loved you and cared for you as\nmore to me than the child of my body. And when with manhood and freewill\ncame trial by sorrow and pain--hard, oh! hard indeed--then I saw my\nblessing in you and touched reward. My son, my son, the son that never\nwas, was brave and patient and long-suffering and meek, because he lay at\nthe feet of the Lord Christ a faithful follower and servant; he never\ncomplained, nor cherished an evil hate; he forgave, and asked that none\nshould avenge him. Who then, among mothers, could rejoice as I, and so\nglory in her son? Ah! ah! like a serpent tongue it flickered in the\nsunlight! Christian, the wretchedest of mothers asks you to have mercy\nupon her. Ah, you will--must. I will not rise from my knees, nor take my\nhands from you, except you promise to put vengeance out of your heart.\nYour hate blasts me, me first before all others. Your blade threatens my\nheart, will pierce it through if it strike for another's.' She was\nmoaning for woe of that hurt. He turned his face away, obdurate still,\nthough the reproach of undeserved esteem had gone deep as any of\nundeserved shame.\n\nThe moaning fell into low prayer. The guilty soul heard that it was not\nfor him she prayed; the old weary penitence for an unredeemed\ntransgression was all her burden now: a sign she asked, one little sign\nthat her poor effort at atonement was not rejected of Heaven. He would\nnot give it; no, he could not. Yet he dreaded that her strenuous\nsupplication must win response, in his great ignorance half believing\nthat some power from above would, against his will, force him to\nconcession.\n\nHe looked again at the dear grey head abased in his unworthy presence out\nof endless remorse for one error. Her God did not answer. Himself was\nweary of her importunity, weary of the pain of her hands: and he loved\nher so! And her God did not answer: and he loved her so!\n\nSilently he laid his hand upon hers. His eyes were full of tears, as he\nsaid, 'Kiss me, mother.' She had conquered: he promised.\n\n'Deliver me from blood-guiltiness, O God!' she said; and he repeated,\n'Deliver me from blood-guiltiness, O God.'\n\n'Mother, mother, pray that I may die!' and then he broke down utterly and\nwept like a child, and was not even ashamed.\n\nAh, poor mother! Soon she came to know that when her son gave up his will\nto her he shut up his heart the faster. His misery never spoke, but\nsilent tears would flow unchecked and unconcealed, and she could give him\nno comfort.\n\nHelpless need like his is a shadow of the Almighty by which men believe;\nbut he could not with a right heart pray because, though he had renounced\nvengeance, forgiveness was a thing apart and impossible.\n\nHow to bear the world and its eyes was the prospect that filled his sky.\nAll his waking hours his heart gazed and gazed thereat, and stayed\nunacquainted, still, and appalled.\n\nNow that in sleep blood was out of his dreams a vision cruelly sweet\ncame in place, and he was in the presence of Diadyomene, following her,\nreaching to her, close to her, yet never quite winning the perfect\npressure of her lips, nor her gracious surrender to the worship of his\nhand; and waking was to unrighteous regret that he had turned from that\nsplendid offer and lost it.\n\nToo swift and few ran the suns, and the inevitable time was at hand for\nbearing the world and its eyes under the hard bond of his promise. The\nyouth and vigour of his body set him on his feet oversoon, while all the\nsoundness his spirit had gained was trembling for its weakness, fear for\nits cowardice, shame for its shame.\n\n'Where shall he go?'\n\n'Christian,' said Lois, 'where will you go?'\n\nHe wondered what she said. Open talk had passed over him unregarded; he\nhad lost the knack of understanding except he tried hard.\n\nGiles sighed. 'Far, indeed, far; for where is our boy not known, the best\nfisher for his years, the best at sail and oar, the strongest proved in\nthe pick of the coast. Far, indeed, for him not to be known.'\n\nThat Christian understood, for he broke silence hoarsely.\n\n'Say out: far indeed for him not to be known as beaten for a thief,\ndrowned like a dog.'\n\nRhoda's hand slipped to his, unseen; she drew it softly against her lips.\nHe did not heed.\n\n'My boy,' said Lois, 'what will you do?'\n\n'Mother, do you bid me go?'\n\nHis hot brain knew of a grand enclosure where satisfying coolness and\npeace and splendid shade reigned, for no man's solace and award.\n\n'You bid me go?'\n\n'Dare you stay?' she said, 'dare I bid you?'\n\nHis voice shook. 'What sort--of killing?' he asked, daunted now.\n\nGiles swore softly after the manner of his kind, under danger of tears.\n\n'Where are your senses, lad? Great storms can't last. This is over, his\nReverence will tell you that. Not twice in a lifetime, I guess, can the\ndevil brew the like.'\n\n'You bid me go?'\n\n'Not now, not yet,' said Lois tremulously; 'but sin and shame were to\nkeep you to a trial beyond your strength.'\n\nHe said quite brokenly: 'You are looking for a broken promise.'\n\n'Not that. Only--only, we know that 'twould be easier for you to face\nstranger folk, and hard though it be to let you go, far harder were it\nfor you to stay, and we cannot ask it.'\n\nChristian's head sank: they all knew that he had not strength nor courage\nto stand upright under a disgraced life; he need but acquiesce for the\nlast spark of self-respect to be extinct.\n\nIt was long before he lifted his head; Rhoda only was there. He asked\nafter Lois. She had gone with his Reverence up towards the church. He\nasked after Giles. He had gone down to the quay to his work of refitting\nthe old boat.\n\nTears stung his brain for the wicked destruction of his own boat, that\nlike a living creature he had loved, and had not saved, and could not\navenge.\n\nRhoda left him but for a moment; passing out to the linhay, the door she\nleft ajar.\n\nChristian stood up, touched his brow once or twice with uncertain\nfingers, drew sharp breath, crossed himself, and stept out into the\nworld.\n\nHe reeled in the sunlight. Its enmity struck at him, and he put up his\nhands against an unknown trouble, for in through his eyes into his brain\nflew strange little white birds and nested there and were not still.\n\nHe alone stood upright in the midst of a rocking world; under his feet\nwalked the path, the road, the street, bringing up an ambush of eyes, and\ngrey birds and fire.\n\nIn the street his coming started a scare. Only yesterday said he was long\na-dying, so that now women fell back afraid of a ghost, for with every\ntrace of sunburn gone his face was of a whiteness astonishing in the\nsouth. But some harder men cursed at the stubborn devil in the boy, that\nkept him alive out of all reckoning, and unsubdued. Face to face none met\nhim till the corner where the street beached and the quay branched. There\nstood an idle group that suddenly gave before a reeling, haggard\nembodiment of hatred.\n\nThese very eyes he knew again, and the one memory within them legible;\nhot, red-hot, they burned him. Red birds and black flew in and sounded\nshrill, and beak and claw tore at a little nook where a promise lay\nshrunk and small. Again he crossed himself, and passed on, till none\nstood between him and the sea.\n\nHot, smooth sand stretched curving round the bay with the hard, grey quay\nlying callous upon it; tall masts peered, windows gleamed and glared, and\nbehind him lay a lifetime of steep street. But strong salt gusts spoke\nto him from the blessed, lonely sea. The tide was leaping in fast and\nwhite; short waves crested and glittered over the expanse of moving blue.\n\nRhoda caught his sleeve and stood beside him panting and trembling,\namazed at his strength and temerity.\n\nJust set afloat by the tide, the old boat rocked against the quay; but\nGiles was pottering afar, and did not see, and could not hear. The weak\npair made forward with one consent, till at the boat Christian halted and\nstept down.\n\nAlong the quay came lounging hateful curiosity; Philip was there, with\nhalf a score more. Rhoda faced round bravely; her fear was overborne by\nintense indignation; she was half a child still, loyal, reckless, and\nwild to parade before one and all her high regard for the victim of their\nbrutal outrage: her esteem, her honour, her love. From the quay above she\ncalled to Christian, knelt, reached across, took him by the neck, and\nkissed him there for all the world to see. Afterwards she knew that all\nthe child in her died on the kiss and left her full woman.\n\nShe kissed him first, and then she saw into his eyes: Christian was mad.\n\nIn terror she sprang up, looking for help vainly and too late. Giles was\nfar off, slow of hearing, slow of foot; and the madman was casting off,\nand the boat began to rock away. In desperation she leapt across the\nwidening interspace, and fell headlong and bruised beside him. The boat\nslanted off and went rollicking over the tumbled waves. All his mad mind\nand his gathered strength were given to hoist the sail.\n\nFar back had the quay floated when the desperate girl rose. Giles was\ndiscernable making vehement gestures of recall. She stood up and answered\nwith imploring hands, and with useless cries too. Christian never heeded.\nThen she even tried her strength against him, but at that the mad eyes\nturned so fierce and dangerous that she shrank away as though he had\nstruck her.\n\nNone of the coral fleet was out on the rising wind and sea, and stray\nsails were standing in; yet Christian, frantically blind, was making for\nhis old station on the fishing shoals. The old boat went eagerly over the\nwaves under a large allowance of sail; the swift furrow of her keel\nvanished under charging crests. Low sank the shore, the dark verdure of\nit faded, the white houses of it dimmed. The strong, terrible sea was\nfeeling his strength as a god when his pulses stir him to play.\n\nOverhead a sea-gull dipped and sailed; it swooped low with a wild note.\nChristian looked up and laughed aloud. In an instant the boat lay for the\nwest, and leaped and quivered with new speed.\n\nScudding for harbourage, under a corner of sail, two stout luggers\npassed; and the men, watching their mad course, waved to warn, and\nshouted unheard. Then Rhoda stood up and signalled and screamed for help.\nShe thought that the wind carried her cry, for both boats put about and\nheaded towards them. Hope rose: two well-manned boats were in pursuit.\nTerror rose: in an instant Christian, to a perilous measure of sail added\nmore, and the boat, like a maddened, desperate thing, went hurling,\nbucking, smashing, over the waves, against the waves, through the waves.\n\nRhoda shut her eyes and tried to pray, that when the quivering, groaning\nplanks should part or sink, and drop her out of life, her soul should\nstand at its seemliest in her Maker's sight. But the horrible lurches\nabating, again she looked. Pursuit was abandoned, soon proved vain to men\nwho had lives of value and a cargo of weight: they had fallen back and\nwere standing away.\n\nThe sun blazed on his downward stoop, with a muster of clouds rolling to\novertake him before he could touch the edge of the world. In due time\nfull storm would come as surely as would the night.\n\nChristian over the gunwale stared down. He muttered to himself; whenever\na white sea-bird swooped near he looked up and laughed again. Wild and\neager, his glance turned ever to the westward sea, and never looked he to\nthe sky above with its threat of storm, and naught cared he for the peril\nof death sweeping up with every wave.\n\nA dark coast-line came forward, that Rhoda knew for the ominous place\nthat had overshadowed Christian's life. The Isle Sinister rose up, a blot\nin the midst of lines of steady black and leaping white.\n\nOver to the low sun the clouds reached, and half the sky grew splendid\nwith ranges of burnished copper, and under it the waves leaped into\nfurious gold. Rhoda's courage broke for the going down of her last sun;\nshe wept and prayed in miserable despair for the life, fresh and young,\nand good to live, that Christian was wantonly casting away with his own.\nNo hope dare live with night and storm joining hands, and madness driving\non the cruelest coast known.\n\nOn they drove abreast of the Isle Sinister.\n\nHe clung swaying to the tiller, with groaning breath, gaping with a wide\nsmile and ravenous looks fixed intently. A terror of worse than death\nswept upon Rhoda. She fell on her knees and prayed, shrieking: 'Good Lord\ndeliver us!'\n\nChristian looked at her; for the only time with definite regard, he\nturned a strange dazed look to her.\n\nA violent shock flung her forward; the dash of a wave took her breath;\nthe boat lurched aslant, belaboured by wave on wave, too suddenly headed\nfor the open sea. The tiller broke from his nerveless hands, and like a\nlog he fell.\n\nRhoda's memory held after no record of what her body did then, till she\nhad Christian's head on her knee. Had she mastered the great peril of the\nsail? had she fastened the rudder for drifting, and baled? she whose\nknowledge and strength were so scanty? Her hands assured her of what her\nmind could not: they were chafed by their frantic hurry over cordage.\n\nShe felt that Christian lived; yet nothing could she do for him, but\nhold him in her arms, giving her body for a pillow, till so they should\npresently go down together, and both be safely dead.\n\nThe buoy-bells jangled to windward, to leeward. Then spoke the blessed\nvoices of the three Saints, and a light showed, a single murky star in a\ngreat cave of blackness, that leaned across the zenith to close round the\npallid west. Ah, not here, not here in the evil place! She had rather\nthey drown in the open.\n\nThe weak, desolate girl was yet clinging desperately to the barest chance\nof life. She laid her burden down; with awkward, aching hands she\nventured to get out a corner of sail; and she tried to steer, but it was\nonly by mercy of a flaw of wind that she held off and went blindly\nreeling away from the fatal surf. As night came on fully the light and\nthe voice of the House Monitory passed away, and the buoy-bells, and the\nroar of breakers, and the heavy black of the coast. Past the Land's End\nin the free currents of open sea, she let the boat drive.\n\nCrouching down again, she took up the dear weight to give what shelter\nshe could, and to gain for herself some, for great blasts drove hard,\nand furious gusts of rain came scourging. Through the great loneliness of\nthe dark they went, helpless, driving on to the heart of the night, the\nstrength of the waves still mounting, and the fierceness of the wind; the\nlong gathering storm, still half restrained, to outleap in full hurricane\nabout the time of midnight.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nAll night Lois and Giles were praying in anguish of grief for their\nchildren of adoption, even when hope was beaten out by the heavy-handed\nstorm. For three days and nights the seas were sailless, though the hulks\nof two wrecks were spied drifting; and after, still they ran so high,\nthat a fifth day dawned before a lugger beat in aside her course on a\nkindly errand. Then up the street leapt news to the desolate pair: how\nRhoda and Christian lived; how their boat had been run down in the night,\nand themselves snatched gallantly from death; how they had been put\nashore at the first port a mastless ship could win, and there received by\nthe pity of strangers; and how all the while Christian lay raving and\ndying, and by now must be dead.\n\nBut to hope reborn this last was unbelievable. Lois said she should find\nhim alive and to live, since Heaven had twice willed him to escape the\njaws of death. And her heart of confidence she kept for more than two\nweary days of difficulty and delay. But when she reached his bed her hope\nwavered; she saw a shorn head, and a face blanched and bloodless like\nbone, fallen out of a shape she knew into strange hollows, with eyes\nshowing but a glassy strip, and grey, breathless lips. 'To-night,' said\nRhoda.\n\nBreathless also through the night they watched till came the first shiver\nof dawn. Then his eyelids rose; he looked with recognition at Lois, and\nmoved a hand towards hers; and with a quiet sigh his eyes closed, not for\ndeath, but for blessed, feverless, breathing sleep.\n\nThe one who wept then was Lois, and Rhoda clasped her in a passionate\nembrace of comfort, and herself shed no tear.\n\nThe child had deserted Rhoda for ever, as the boy Christian. She knew it:\nshe had kissed her childhood dead on his lips, and now past any recall it\nhad been buried, and lay deep under such a weight of sorrow as fate can\nhew only for a woman full. No tear she shed, no word she said, and she\nordered her face to be serene.\n\nShe had a word for Lois not at first to be understood. 'God has been good\nto heal,' she would say; but the whole truth did not declare till Lois,\nregarding the future again, had sighed: 'Where shall he go?' 'Home,' said\nRhoda. Lois shook her head sadly: 'He could not bear it.' The girl, with\narms round her neck and a hid face, whispered again: 'God has been good\nto heal--I think so--do you not know it yet?'\n\nSo a day came when a wasted shadow of the old Christian was borne along\nthe quay and up the street, while men and women stept out to observe.\nTheir eyes he met with placid recognition, clear of any disquiet.\n\nThe devil had gone out of the fellow at last, they said, when he could\nnot lift a hand for injury, nor gloom a resentful look. And so hard\ndoings were justified; and none intolerant could begrudge him the life he\nhad brought away, even before a guess began that he had not brought away\nhis full wits.\n\nOut in the porch he would come to bask in the sun for hours with animal\ncontent. Out to the gate he would come, going weakly to and fro as he was\nbid. But Giles was surly to men, and to women Lois was iron cold, and\nRhoda had deft ways of insult to repulse unwelcome intrusion; and so for\na little while those three guarded him and kept close the secret of his\nruin.\n\nThen one at an unguarded moment won in, and spied, and carried her report\nof his mild, his brute-mild gaze, and his slow labour of speech: it was\nthe mother of Philip. Rhoda found a token of her left beside Christian, a\nwell-intended, small peace-offering, in a cheese of her sole make.\n\n'Who brought this?' she asked; and he told.\n\n'She offered it--to you?'\n\n'To us,' he returned quietly.\n\n'And you took it--thanked her and took it?'\n\nHe looked up and studied her face for enlightenment.\n\n'The mother was not here.'\n\nRhoda's passion surged over. 'How dared she, how dared she!' she stormed,\nand seized on the poor gift, cast it down, stamped it into the sandy\npath, and spurned it over the sweet herbs into the sluggy kail beyond.\n\nLike a child, chidden for some uncomprehended fault, he looked at her,\ndistressed at her condemnation, anxious to atone, wondering if his senses\ntold him true. Her anger failing under an agony of pity and remorse, from\nthe unendurable pain of his look she fled to hide her passionate weeping.\nWhen Lois came out to Christian he was deeply asleep.\n\nSoon he carried into the street his brute-mild gaze, and his slow labour\nof speech. And no thumb turned against him. For all who chose to peer in\non his blank mind found how shame and rancour could take no root in a\nvoid of memory. He met every face with an even countenance, showing no\nrecall of a debt to any.\n\nIn a very literal sense it was now said that the devil had gone out of\nhim. Willing belief held that he had been actually possessed, and\ndelivered only when a right instinct of severity had spoiled him for\nhabitation. Some compunction showed over the mooted point whether the\npitiful lasting flaw had not rather come of the last spite of an evicted\ndevil, than of the drastic measures of exasperated men.\n\nIn nowise did Christian's reason now work amiss, though it was slow and\nheavy; nor had his memory lost all its store, nor quite its power to\nstore. Of earlier days his remembrance was clear and complete though a\nlittle unready, but of passing hours some only did not float clean out of\nmind to be forgotten. This was a deficiency that mended by degrees, and\nin time bid fair to pass. Where the break began, none who loved him\nventured to discover. Once when, as shall be told, Giles incautiously\ntouched, Christian turned a dazed, painful face, and grew white and\nwhiter, and presently laid his head down on his arms and slept deeply. In\nthose days frequent slumbers fell, and for the most part memory was\nblurred behind them.\n\nLois in her heart sometimes had a secret doubt that oblivion had not\nentirely satisfied him. His reason seemed too serviceable to lie down\nwithout an effort; and it was hard to imagine how it could account for\ncertain scars that his body would carry to the grave; or account for the\nloss of two boats--the old drudge and his own murdered Beloved. Yet when\nin his presence they held anxious debate on the means to a new boat, he\nlistened and made no comment.\n\nThe poor wronged household was hardly set. Restitution was unlooked for,\nand not to be enforced, for woe betide any who against the tyranny of the\nfishers' law invoked higher powers and another code. Though now the alien\nwas tolerated under a milder estimate, an outcast he remained, and none\nwere so hardy as to offer fellowship with him and his. The cost of a boat\nwas more than Giles could contrive on his own poor securities, and none\ncould he find to share for profit or risk in any concern that Christian\nwould be handling. It was only on his Reverence offering surety for\ninstalments that the dread of ruin and exile for one and all passed them\nby, and means to a livelihood were obtained.\n\nTogether, as in the long past days when Christian was yet a child, and\nGiles was still hale, the old man and the young returned to daily toil on\nthe coral shoals. Giles was the better man of the two at the first, for\nnecessity had admitted of no delay; but as the younger gained in strength\nthe elder lost; by the month's end his feeble stock of strength,\noverdrawn, failed suddenly, not enough remaining for him to potter about\nthe quay as before. In months succeeding, his goings came to be\nstraitened, first to the garden, then to the house, then to one seat, one\nbed. Before the year's end it was to be to the straitest lodging of\nall--green turfed.\n\nAlone, quite alone again, with sea and sky whispering together round him,\nand no sail near, well might those who loved Christian pray for him\nhourly.\n\nHis first return was so late that terrors beset all three. The two women\nwere on the quay when his boat glided in under dusk, and up he stept with\na load. The hearts of both were beating thick for dread of a rich load\nthat would blast him afresh, for thus in old days had he glided in at\ndusk.\n\nBut what he bore was only his nets, which he dropped before them. He\nstood silent and downcast. They saw that one of the cross-beams was\nbroken; they saw that the meshes were torn incredibly.\n\nThey saw that he was waiting in dumb distress to be told by them if he\nwere to blame. Ah, dear aching hearts! not a word, not a look was there\nto weigh on him in his disappointment. Rhoda stripped off the netting and\ncarried it home, with a gay boast of proving her proficiency, for she had\nlearned net-making from Christian in his idle days of weakness. Half the\nnext day she sat mending, and was proud of her finished task, expecting\nsome reward of praise. But it never came. The fresh netting he had taken\nhe brought back torn hideously, so that dismay fell.\n\nChristian and Giles together had met only poor luck, but here came a\nstroke of so deliberate an aim that the word misfortune seemed\nindifferent to describe it.\n\nAnd this was but the beginning of a long course; again and again\nChristian returned with spoiled nets; and, even on better days, few there\nwere when his takings were not conspicuously poor in amount and quality.\nSuch loss was the graver since an instalment was due at the season's\nclose, and except the dawning autumn brought fair success, sore straits\nwould come with the winter.\n\nRhoda proved good for bread-winning. Before, she had practised\nlace-making, taught her at the convent school, and now she turned to it\nwith all her energy. Early and late found her bending over her pillow. No\nmore net-mending for her: for the sake of unroughened hands she had to\nleave that to Christian and the elders. Yet her work was but poorly paid,\nand the sale uncertain.\n\nAs autumn came in, Christian still gained in physical strength up to near\nhis old level; but Giles declined slowly, Lois grew thin and worn, and\nRhoda was losing something of her bloom.\n\nThe heart of the old man yearned over the girl, and he knew that his time\nwas but brief. For hours he would sit and watch, fondly and sadly, her\ndear bent head and her hands playing over her pillow in a patch of light\nunder the pinned-back blind. At last he told Christian his heart, even\nChristian.\n\n'Take care of my little maid, lad.'\n\nHe answered 'Ay,' stupidly.\n\n'For I reckon I may not be here long to care for her myself.'\n\nThat was all he said at first, but that he would say often for some days,\ntill he was sure that Christian had taken the sense in full, and had\nfailed to quite disbelieve his foreboding.\n\n'Before I lie down in the dark, I would like main to hear you take oath\non it, lad.'\n\n'I take oaths never,' said Christian mechanically.\n\n'Right, right! save in this wise: before God's altar with ring and\nblessing.'\n\nChristian examined his face long to be sure of understanding; then he\nsaid, 'No.'\n\nGiles was disappointed, but spite of the absolute tone he would not take\na negative.\n\n'When I am gone to lie yonder east and west, and when some day the wife\nshall come too to bed with me, how will you take care of my little maid?\nher and her good name?'\n\n'Oh, God help us!'\n\n'Look you to it, for I doubt she, dear heart, cares for you--now--more\nthan for her mere good name.'\n\n'How can she!' he muttered.\n\nSaid Giles hazardously: 'Once I knew of a girl such as Rhoda; as shy and\nproud and upright; and a lad she liked,--a lad, say, such as you,\nChristian, that she liked in her heart more than he guessed. Until he got\nshamefully mistook, miscalled, mishandled, when she up and kissed him at\nopen noon in the face of all. And then, I mind, at need she followed him\nover seas, and nought did her good heart think on ill tongues. There is\nRhoda all over.'\n\nHe watched askance to see what the flawed wits could do, and repented of\nhis venture; for it was then Christian so paled and presently so slept.\n\nBut Giles tried again.\n\n'Do you mind you of the day of Rhoda's coming? Well, what think you had I\nat heart then? You never had a guess? You guess now.'\n\nChristian said, 'I will not.'\n\n'Ah! lad, you do. And to me it looked so right and fit and just. That the\nwife might gainsay, I allowed; but not you. No; and you will not when I\ntell you all.\n\n'Christian, I do not feel that I have left in me another spring, so while\nI have the voice I must speak out, and I may not let you be.\n\n'You know of Rhoda's birth: born she was on the same night as our child.\nAs for me, I could not look upon the one innocent but thought on the\nother would rise, and on the pitiful difference there was. Somehow, the\nwife regarded it as the child of its father only, I think always, till\nRhoda stood before her, the very image of her mother. And with me 'twas\njust the other way about; and I was main fond of the poor young mother; a\nsweet, gentle creature she was--a quiet dove, not a brave hawk like\nlittle Rhoda. I wished the little thing could have shared with ours heart\nand home; but that the wife could not have abided, the man being amongst\nus too. But I went and managed so that none can cast up on Rhoda as a\npauper foundling.\n\n'Lad, as I would like you to think well of me when I am gone, God knows I\ncan ill afford to have more than is due stand against me; so look you,\nlad, I was not such a wastrel as you had cause for thinking. I don't deny\nwhat may have been in old days before, but for a good seventeen year when\nI have gone off for a fling now and then, Rhoda has been the better for\nit, not I the worse. It has been hard on the wife, and I own I have done\na deal of cheating by her and by you too, and have stinted you unfairly.\nThere, there, hold your tongue, and let me start fair again.\n\n'After our child was taken from us, and the poor wife took on so for our\nblame, it was borne in on me that the rightest amending was not far to\nseek; and I put it to her at last. But I spoke too soon, when her hurts\nwere quick and raw, and she could not bear it. She was crazy-like then,\nand I put my notion by for a bit. You see, it was like this: I reckoned\nthe fatal misdoing was unchristian rancour against the father, and care\nfor his deserted child should best express contrition. But the wife\ncouldn't look that way--and she got from the Book awful things to say\nagainst the wicked man and his children; and all she repented on was her\nwrong ways, in neglect of right worship to affront the man; and I think\nin her heart she cursed him more bitter than ever. A penance it would\nhave been to her to do violence to her griefs and indignations by taking\nup the child; but it would have righted her as nothing else could, and\nthat I knew, and I looked to bring her to it yet. For me, well, I was on\nother ground before then, and more than once Rhoda's baby hand had closed\nupon my finger, ay, upon my heart, though then she was not like my own.\nAnd that in a way made me slack to drive against the grain, when with me\nthe point ran smooth and sweet.\n\n'Now, Christian, what came next?'\n\nThe old man had been very slow with his tale, watching his listener\nintently all the while to be sure he heeded and understood. Christian\nshook his head, but there was very sensible apprehension on his face as\nhe looked to Giles.\n\n'You came, Christian.\n\n'You took the place in heart and home that might have come to be little\nRhoda's, as I hoped.\n\n'You came from the sea that had taken our own, and so the wife said it\nwas the hand of God. I thought the hand of God pointed otherwise.\nChristian, what say you?'\n\nHe could answer nothing: Giles waited, but he could not.\n\n'You will take care of my little maid as I want?'\n\n'I cannot! ah, I cannot!'\n\n'All these years Rhoda has wanted a home as I think because of you; and\nbecause of you I could not hope for the wife's heart to open to her.'\n\n'She should hate me! you should!' said Christian. His face was scared.\n\n'You can make ample amends--oh! ample; and Rhoda will count the wants of\nher youth blessed that shall lay the rest of her days to your keeping.\nShe will--Christian, are you so blind?--she will.\n\n'Ah, dear lad! I got so well contented that the wife had had her way and\nhad taken you, when I saw what the just outcome should be; and saw her\nshaping in the dark towards the happy lot of the sweet little slip she\nignored. Long back it began, when you were but a little chap. Years\nbefore you set eyes on her, Rhoda had heard of you.\n\n'In the end I could fit out no plan for you to light on her; and a grubby\nsuitor was bargaining for her, so I had to make a risky cast. She was to\nenter as a passing stranger I had asked to rest. The wife fell on her\nneck, before a word. Well, well, what poor fools we had both been!\n\n'Christian, why do you say No?'\n\n'I wish her better.'\n\n'But she loves you! I swear she loves you! And I, O good Lord! I have\ndone my best to set her affections on you. How shall I lie still in the\ngrave while her dear heart is moaning for its hurt, and 'tis I that have\nwrought it.'\n\nTo a scrupulous nature the words of Giles brought cruel distress.\nChristian's eyes took to following Rhoda, though never a word of wooing\nwent to her. In the end he spoke.\n\n'Dear Rhoda,' he said, and stopped; but instantly she looked up startled.\nHis eyes were on the ground.\n\n'Rhoda, I love you dearly. Will you be my wife?'\n\nShe grew white as death, and stayed stone-still, breathless. Then he\nlooked at her, stood up, and repeated resolutely: 'Rhoda, dearest, will\nyou be my wife?'\n\nShe rose to confront him, and brought out her answer:\n\n'No.'\n\nHe stared at her a moment in stupid bewilderment.\n\n'You will not be my wife?' he said.\n\nShe put out all her strength to make the word clear and absolute, and\nrepeated: 'No.'\n\nHis face grew radiant; he caught her in his arms suddenly and kissed her,\nonce, twice.\n\n'O my sister!' he cried, 'my dear sister!'\n\nShe did not blush under his kisses: she shut her eyes and held her breath\nwhen his eager embrace caught her out of resistance. But when it\nslackened she thrust him back with all her might, broke free, and with a\nlow cry fled away to find solitude, where she might sob and sob, and\nwrestle out her agony, and tear her heart with a name--that strange\nname, that woman's name, 'Diadyomene.'\n\nShe had his secret, she only, though it was nought but a name and some\nlove titles and passionate entreaties that his ravings had given into her\nsafe keeping.\n\nOn the morrow Christian's boat lay idle by the quay. Before dawn moved he\nhad gone.\n\n'I think--I think you need not fear for him,' said Rhoda, when the day\nclosed without him. 'I think he may be back to-morrow.'\n\n'You know what he is about--where he has gone, child?'\n\nFirst she said 'Yes,' and then she said 'No.'\n\nIn the dusk she crept up to Giles. Against his breast she broke into\npitiful weeping.\n\n'Forgive me! forgive me! I said \"No\" to him.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nWith its splendour and peace unalterable, the great sanctuary enclosed\nthem.\n\nFace to face they stood, shattered life and lost soul. Diadyomene tried\nto smile, but her lips trembled; she tried to greet him with the old name\nDiadyomenos, but it fell imperfect. And his grey eyes addressed her too\nforcibly to be named. What was in them and his face to make her afraid?\neyes and face of a lover foredoing speech.\n\nThe eager, happy trouble of the boy she had beguiled flushed out no more;\nnay, but he paled; earnest, sad, indomitable, the man demanded of her\nanswering integrity. Uncomprehended, the mystery of pain in embodied\npower stood confronting the magic of the sea, and she quailed.\n\n'Agonistes, Agonistes!' she panted, 'now I find your name: it is\nAgonistes!'\n\nBut while he did not answer, her old light came to her for reading the\ntense inquiry of his eyes. Did they demand acknowledgment of her defeat\nand his supremacy? No, she would not own that; he should not know.\n\n'And have you feared to keep what you got of the sea? And have you flung\nit away, as I counselled when last you beheld me?'\n\nThe strong, haggard face never altered for contest. He asked slowly:\n\n'Was it a vision of Diadyomene that rose up to the waves through the\nshadow of a fisher's boat?'\n\nWith an effort she set her eyes at his defiantly.\n\n'It was not I. I? For what cause?'\n\n'He called you.'\n\n'I come for no man's call.'\n\nAgainst her will her eyes fell.\n\n'Look at me, Diadyomene; for an evil dream haunts me, and your eyes have\ngot it hid.'\n\n'An evil dream!'\n\nShe laughed, but her breath came quick as again their looks encountered.\n\nWhat she met in the steadfast grey eyes brought terror gathering to her\nown. She shuddered and covered her face.\n\n'An evil dream haunts _me_, and _your_ eyes have got it hid.'\n\nHe watched, dazed, and muttered: 'You--you.'\n\n'What is it?--what is it?' she cried. 'Why have you brought it with you\nout of season? It is like an air that I cannot breathe. Take it away!'\n\nNever before had she shown so human a weakness, nor had she ever shown so\nwomanly fair. Her clear eyes dilated, her whole face quivered, and for an\ninstant a shadow of vague wistfulness crossed her fear. Her lover's heart\nbeat free of dreams, for a passion of tenderness responded to her need.\n\n'Ah, Diadyomene, no! Can you so dream it, when, to keep all evil from\nyou, I would, God willing, enter hell?'\n\n'May be,' she whispered, 'it is what you call hell I enter, every year\nonce, when my dream comes.'\n\nAppalled he heard. 'You shall not, Diadyomene, you shall not! Come to me,\ncall me, and what heart of man can brave, by my soul I will, and keep you\nsafe.'\n\nShe found his eyes again, within them only love, and she rallied.\n\n'It is only a dream,' she said. 'And yet to escape it I would give up\nmany choice moments of glorious sea life.'\n\nShe eyed him hard, and clenched her hands. 'I would give up,' she said,\n'the strongest desire my heart now holds; ay, in the dear moment of its\nfulfilment, I would give up even that, if so a certain night of the year\nmight pass ever dreamless and untroubled.'\n\n'So would not I! though I think my dream cannot be less terrible than\nyours; though I know my desire cannot be less dear. Diadyomene, what is\nthe desire of your heart?'\n\nShe would not say; and she meant with her downcast, shy eyes to mislead\nhim. But in vain: too humble was he to presume.\n\n'Diadyomene, what is your dream?'\n\n'I cannot tell,' she said, 'for it passes so that my brain holds but an\necho of it, and my heart dread. And what remains of it cannot be told,\nfor words are too poor and feeble to express it.'\n\nHe saw her thinking, sighing, and shuddering.\n\n'How near is its coming?' he asked, and but half heeding she told,\ncounting by the terms of the moon.\n\n'Agonistes, how I know not, my deep, strong love of the sea grows\nsomewhat faint when the hour draws near to dream; and the land, the poor,\nhard, unsatisfying land, grows some degrees dearer. Ah! but I loathe it\nafter, when my life again beats strong and true with the pulse of the\ndeep. Keep you far from me then, lest I hate you--yes, even you--hate you\nto death.'\n\n'Rather bid me here, to watch out the night with you.'\n\n'I forbid it!' she said, suddenly fierce and wary. 'Take heed! Wilful,\ndeliberate trespass against my express will shall find no pity, no\npardon.'\n\nQuick she saw that, intemperate, she had startled her prey; therefore she\namended, smiling sadly.\n\n'See you how those diverse tides sway me even now. Agonistes, were you\nnot of the land--did you share the sea--then may be--ah, ah----\n\n'I will try to tell you. An awful sense of desolation falls, for I feel\ndry earth underfoot, and thin air, and I hear the sea moaning for me, but\nturn where I will I cannot see nor reach it: it lies beyond a lost path,\nand the glories, blisses, and strengths it gives me wither and die. And\nthen horrors of the land close round me.\n\n'What are they? I know not; they whirl past me so that their speed\nconceals them; yet, as streaks, are they hideous and ghastly. And I hear\nfearful sounds of speech, but not one distinct, articulate word. And in\nmy dream I know that if any one stays, stands, confronts me, to be seen\nfully in the eyes and heard out clear from the din, all my joy of the sea\nwould lie dead for ever, and the very way back would vanish.'\n\nChristian had his own incomparable vision of the magic of the sea to\noppose and ponder.\n\n'Ah! you cannot comprehend, for I tell of it by way of the senses, and\nthey are without, but this is within: in my veins, my breath, my fibres\nof life. It is I--me.'\n\n'I can, ah! I can.'\n\n'Yet the dear heart of the sea holds me fast through all; with imperious\nkindness it seizes my will when my love grows slackest, and draws me out\nof the shallows; and down, and down I drift, like weed.'\n\n'Diadyomene, have you never defied your fear, and kept from sleep, and\nkept from the sea?'\n\nHer voice sank. 'If I did--my dream might--come true.\n\n'Agonistes, what I saw in your eyes was--I doubted--my dream--coming\ntrue.\n\n'No; I will not look again.'\n\nChristian's voice was as low and shaken as hers. 'What was there?' he\nsaid.\n\nAgain and again she gathered her breath for speech, yet at last was\nscarce audible.\n\n'A horror--a living human body--tortured with fire and scourge--flayed.'\n\nShe lifted one glance and took the imprint of a strange tranced face,\nbloodless as death, void of speculation. Prone she sank to the edge of\nthe altar rock, for such passions leapt up and grappled in desperate\nconflict as dissolved her strength under exquisite throes.\n\nShe never raised her head, till, after long wrestle, malice--strong,\nfull-grown malice--recovered and stood up triumphant over all. And not\none word all that while had come from her lover.\n\nThere lay he, his bright head low within reach of her hand. His tranquil\nease, his quiet breath, flouted her before she saw that his eyes were\nclosed in real sleep. His eyes were closed.\n\nShe sprang up, stung, willing to kill; her wicked heart laughed,\ngratified then with the doings of men.\n\nHow grand the creature lay!\n\nShe stood to feast her eyes on the doomed body. The placid composure of\nthe sleeper, of serene countenance, of slack limbs, touched her as\nexcellent comedy. But it exasperated her also to the verge of a shrieking\nfinish.\n\nShe ached with a savage thirst in all her members; feet and hands and\nlips parched in imperious desires to trample, to smite, to bite her\nresentful hatred into the piece of flesh that mocked her control. The\nquiet sway of life within his ribs provoked her, with each slow breath he\ndrew, to rend it from him.\n\nShe turned away hastily from temptation to so meagre a revenge; for his\nspirit must first be crushed and broken and rent, justly to compensate\nfor insolent offence. 'He cannot escape, for his heart is in my hand\nalready,' she said.\n\nRipples of jasper and beryl closed over her swift descent and shimmered\nto smooth. Lone in these splendid fittings for sepulture lay recumbent a\nmake of earth meet to accomplish its void destiny.\n\nRipples of jasper and beryl broke from her slow ascent as a reflex\ncurrent swept her back.\n\nThe mask of sleep lay over his face; though she peered intent, it would\nyield nothing, nothing. A want and a dread that struggled together for\nbirth troubled the cold sea nature. Strong they thrust towards the light,\nas her mind recalled the intolerable speech of his eyes and his altered\nface. So near she bent that the warmth of his breath reached her lips.\nShe shrank back, quivering, and crouched, rocked with passionate sighs.\n\n'But I hate, I hate!' she moaned; for a contrary impulse bade her lay\nupon his breast her hand, and on his lips hers, and dare all her asking\nfrom his eyes. A disloyal hand went out and hovered over his heart. She\nplucked it back, aware of a desperate peril, vague, awful, alluring to\ndestruction, like a precipice yawning under night.\n\nHis hair was yellow-brown, matching the mellow sands of the under-sea; it\nran into crisp waves, and over the brow curved up to crest like a breaker\nthat stayed unbroken. No such hair did the sea grow--no hair, no head,\nthat often her hand had so wanted to handle; ay, graciously--at first--to\nhold the crispness, to break the crest; and ever because she dared not\ndid fierceness for tearing arise. So slight an inclination, ungratified,\nextended to vast dimensions, and possessed her entire. And she called it\nhate. How long, how long, she complained, shall I bear with this thirst?\nYet if long, as long shall the quenching be. He shall but abandon his\nsoul, and no doubt shall restrain me from touching as I will.\n\nShe covered her face from the light of day, for she contemplated an\namazement to nature: deadly hate enfolded in the arms of strong love.\n\nWhen the tide brimmed up and kissed him awake, Diadyomene was away.\n\nAnother manner of Diadyomene vexed her lover's next coming: she was\nmockery incarnate, and unkind; for she would not condescend to his\nlimitations, nor forsake a golden spongy nest two fathoms and more below\nbreath. Yet her laughter and her eyes summoned him down, and he, poor\nfool, displayed before her derision his deficiency, slow to learn that\nuntiring submission to humiliation would win no gracious reward at last.\nAnd the young witch was as slow to learn that no exasperation she could\ncontrive would sting him into amorous close for mastery.\n\nChristian was no tempered saint. Diadyomene gained a barren, bitter\nvictory, for he fled.\n\nAt sundown a monitress, mounting the night tower, by a loophole of the\nstair looking down on the great rock saints, spied a figure kneeling\ndevoutly. When the moon rose late the same kept vigil still. In the wan\nof dawn the same, overtaken by sleep, lay low against the feet of St.\nMargaret.\n\nThough Christian slept, he heard the deep bell voices of the three.\nArticulate they grew, and entered the human soul with reproof and\nexhortation and promise. He woke, and intrepid rose to face the unruly\nclamours of nature, for the sake of the cast soul of that most beautiful\nbody, Diadyomene.\n\nVain was the encounter and the passionate spiritual wooing. Diadyomene\nwould not hear, at heart fiercely jealous because no such ardent entreaty\nhad all her beauty and charms ever evoked. She was angered when he would\nnot take dismissal.\n\n'Never, never,' she said, 'has any creature of the sea thwarted me so and\nlived; and you, you dare! Hear now. There, and there, and there, stand\nyet your silly inscriptions. Cancel them, for earnest that never again\nshall mention of those monstrous impossible three trouble my ear.'\n\n'No.'\n\n'Hear yet. Cancel them, and here, perpetual and irrevocable, shall right\nof freedom be yours, and welcome. Leave them intact, and I swear you\nshall not get hence scatheless.'\n\n'Can you mean this, Diadyomene?'\n\n'Ah, so! because I relented once, you presume. See, and if those three\ncan deliver you whole, them will I worship with you.'\n\nAnd it came to pass that Christian carried home the best member that he\npossessed broken, for fulfilment of Diadyomene's promise.\n\nHe doubted she had divined a profane desire, and covertly rewarded it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\nOne there was who watched Christian with curious intentness, who, when\nthe plight of the Alien staled on general interest, was singular by\npersistent advances: his old rival, Philip. Elder by two years, the\ntyrant of Christian's early day had he been; between them drawn battle\nraged while the one had yet advantage by a head, soon to alter when the\nother came stepping up from the ranks of boyhood to match with men, and\nto win final supremacy at every point. Latent challenge had not worn out\nof meeting glances even before Rhoda's coming accentuated an antagonism\nbased primarily on temperament and type. When the world turned upon\nChristian, Philip's forwardness was accountable enough; when the world\nveered, his position might fairly have been backward.\n\nAnd truly slowest he was to get conviction of the perfect cure that had\nbefallen the alien. Though for proof he drew near, venturous to tempt a\nsparkle out of the quenched firebrand, his closest approach could\ndiscover none; nay, all lively mislike and jealousy seemed gone with the\nmissing core; old remembered heats kept but indifferent life, and every\ntrace of arrogance had vanished quite. To such an one Philip could be\ngenerous at no great cost were it not for Rhoda's preference.\n\nIn a character of but poor stuff some strands of good quality ran hid,\nand a love-liking for the shy, fierce, young girl was strengthening into\nbetter worth under reverses. That Christian stood first in her regard he\nknew well, for she made it abundantly clear, with a courage and frankness\nthat brought comment. 'Not maidenly!' retorted Philip to his mother,\n'then is maidendom the sorrier.' He came to respect even the innocent\nvice in her that woke ever to affront him. That his passion could survive\nrages of vanity, often and deep wounded, proved its vitality and worth.\n\nSlowly also and fitfully Philip came to think that Christian was no rival\nlover; that he never did, that now he never would, regard Rhoda as more\nthan a sister. For his own gain he might be generous; yet among meaner\nmotives stood an honest endeavour to deserve well of the girl who loved\nChristian, overbearing old antipathies; nor should it be to his demerit\nthat he was unconstrained by any touch of compunction: an amended version\nof Christian, harmless, luckless, well-disposed, forbade any such\ndisrespect to past measures.\n\nWhile many wondered that he should be so considerate of the alien, Rhoda\nhardened her heart. Even greater than unquenchable resentment was her\ndistress of grief and shame because Christian was tamed. Unwittingly,\nPhilip himself afforded demonstration. No wonder his aim miscarried, and\nhe had ground to complain bitterly of signal injustice.\n\nOnce, at twilight, as Rhoda turned towards the quay, looking for\nChristian and his rent nets, Philip stayed her, refusing rebuff, and\nsought to turn her home again with an awkward lie. She caught him out and\nstared. Then sudden terror started her past him, and winged her along the\nshore towards men clustering thick. But Philip was speedy, overtook her,\nand in desperation held her by main force.\n\n'Rhoda,' he entreated, 'you must not go. It is not Christian, I say. It\nis not Christian.'\n\nShe was struggling with all her might, beating at him, biting at his\nhands.\n\n'I will go, I will! Christian, Christian! Let me go! Ah, coward!'\n\n'It is not Christian,' and he named another to pacify her. 'Not\nChristian.'\n\nShe did not believe him; as he had caught her she had heard a cry that\nmaddened her so that her brain could take hold of no reason. She was sure\nthat Christian was being done to death after some horrible fashion.\n\nNo; thank God, no. She saw him suddenly safe and free; and she fell to\nsobbing and trembling pitifully, so that Philip without offence for a\nmoment held her in his arms. She saw him coming, one high, fair head\nconspicuous above the rest; she saw him looking aside, turning aside,\nwhen instinctively she knew that what he beheld was a thief bound and\nbeaten according to the custom and law of the fishers. As he halted,\noverlooking the circle, she read by nods exchange of question and answer.\nAnd then on he came again. One or two turned and looked after him: that\nshe noted.\n\nShe was moaning and rocking for pain, though she did not know it; she was\nwhite and cold, for fear so held her heart's blood that not even the\nagony of shame she felt for Christian could urge any to her face. She\ntried to go forward, but only got free from Philip to find she could\nbarely stand, and must hold by the sea-wall. So Christian's face came\nnear to be read, and lo! it was utterly blank: no anger, no pain, no\nshame, altered it by a line; but the lips were grey, and as he set eyes\non Philip quickly he crossed himself. Then he saw Rhoda, and oh! the\ncomfort to her of his strong, quiet grasp, and his eyes, and his voice.\n\nThrobbing yet from Rhoda's warm weight, struck with vivid misdoubt and\nfear of the alien, Philip forgot control, and the natural man looked out\nfor one moment with glance of hot challenge at his born rival. He met no\nresponse: Christian regarded him with resolute mild eyes, without\njealousy, or resentment, or any perplexity, till he grew confounded and a\nlittle ashamed.\n\n'Take me home,' entreated Rhoda; and Christian, without a question or a\ncomment, took her hand to lead. For one dreadful moment, breathless to\nRhoda, he looked back and stood. Against his palm hers lay listening: it\nwas mute, to her nerved apprehension telling nothing. Then home.\n\nWhat could the loon mean with his signing? thought Philip, shaken by a\ndoubt. Nothing, nothing--blank madness. Nevertheless, his sudden,\nshameful fear of the Alien did not soon lie down to sleep again.\n\nA further proving awaited Christian and Philip. To Giles came Rhoda.\n\n'He says--Philip,' she began, choking, 'that except he--he--shall excel\nin the contests to-day, Christian will be wanted for saving to our fleet\nits lead on the coast. Oh, he must not!--he shall not! And he said, with\nhis hateful airs, that he would do his best--to spare Christian. And he\nsaid, if he failed at that, he could yet promise that none should offend\nChristian with impunity while he stood by--he--he.' There a wretched\nlaugh sobbed and strangled her.\n\n'I said our Christian would not--no--not for love, nor fear, nor profit,\nfor he hinted that. I said: with what face dare such asking approach?\nwhat part has he with the fleet? Never goes he aboard any boat, and never\na soul comes aboard his, neither do any dredge alongside him and his\nill-luck. The Alien they call him ever. Him--him their best, their very\nbest, having used worse than the lowest outcast, they desire as their\nchampion at need. Are devils so vile and shameless? Oh! he must not.\nForbid it you, and he will not disobey.'\n\nThe old man shook his head.\n\n'He is no child--even now. He will look at me with those eyes of his,\nand ask why--and then am I done.'\n\nLater, Rhoda ventured down to Christian, mending his dredge on the quay,\nand persuaded him away. In vain; for some waylaid him, and there in her\nhearing got his promise, in swimming and rowing to do his best for the\ncredit of the fleet. Rhoda dared only press his hand and look entreaty\nwhile his answer hung. A dazed look came and passed. Afterwards, his face\nof mild inquiry daunted remonstrance, as Giles foretold.\n\nPhilip fetched him away eventually, but had not even the favour of a look\nfrom Rhoda. She kept down her head, biting back tears and words of rage\nand grief.\n\n'I think he means well--does Philip,' sighed Giles unhappily.\n\nLois said bitterly: 'Like Samson blind, he goes to make sport for the\nPhilistines.'\n\nRhoda broke into passionate weeping.\n\n'Ah, ah!' she cried, 'it is unbearable. At every turn strangers I\nsaw--who have come and heard--who will see, and our Christian will\nhear--alone, all alone. Oh, would that I were a brother to stand by him!\nPhilip mean well! He prides himself on it, he parades it as a virtue, and\nto himself pretends that he does not hate. But once, he forgot, and\nlooked--and I saw--hate--hate and fear. And I know, though he do\ncontrary, that his blood will dance for joy at any affront to Christian.\nI know--and he takes Christian out to show!'\n\nGiles got on his feet.\n\n'If I am ever to tread the old quay, it may well be to-day.'\n\nThe remonstrance of Lois lacked vigour. He took help of Rhoda's shoulder\nthe length of the downward street, and then shambled off alone to\nChristian's protection.\n\nOne, two, three hours passed, and twilight. Then back they came,\nChristian's ample strength charged with the old man's weight. Giles swore\nwithin his beard in his way that the women knew.\n\n'He takes his way for no asking or need of mine,' he declared gruffly;\n'and he might use his strength to better purpose.'\n\n'Christian outdone!'\n\n'No,' Christian said, 'I think not. No, none say so.'\n\nHe stretched wearily, sighed, and, laying his head down on his arms,\nslept profoundly. They exchanged woful looks.\n\n'Poor lad, poor lad!' said the old man brokenly.\n\n'Ah, yes; he bested the lot: in rowing hardly, in swimming easily. Oh,\ndon't ask! it was pretty bad. Bad! Oh, good Lord, but it makes one man\nsweat again to look back on it.\n\n'Oh! God damn their greedy eyes! Yet some few of our lot turned fair\nashamed of their own handiwork; and when one brute of the Islands\nsaid--no matter what, but his own fellows muttered shame--and Philip\nwould have struck him, yonder poor fool knocked up his arm quick.\n\n'Yes, Philip, girl! and I tell you I saw no hate: and he looked long and\nclose too.'\n\nStirless in sleep, Christian offered remonstrance to nerves that quivered\nunder the halting tale.\n\n'The worst? no, the worst was after the young fools in their cups got\nheady. And in the end--well, the end of all was that Philip floored his\nman. And that should have been Christian's business, and he would not\nstir, though I nudged him to be up and at such foul jests. \"I have heard\nnothing unfit,\" he says. And I wished I were underground. I never want to\nfoot the quay again. Poor lad! ay, and poor spirit! the very man of him\nhas got flawed.'\n\n'No,' said Lois painfully, 'however it came he did worthily, up to his\nname.'\n\nGiles closed his mouth, but shook his head mournfully, and Rhoda drew to\nhim.\n\nThis fell when late gales were closing the season to the coral fishers.\nLittle more than a week after, Christian came back with his broken arm.\n\nThen want came looming straight ahead. Every due was paid, but none knew\nby what hard stinting, for resolute pride uttered no plea, and hid every\nsign. That the waning life of Giles should suffer from no lack, the\nothers fared the harder. A haggard Christian, befitting a chastened lot,\ndrew no comment; and if Rhoda grew a little pale, and Lois shrunk and\ngrey, known cares they had for allowance, barring any guess at scant\nbread.\n\nThe hardest of trials to a willing, strong man met Christian when,\nre-knit and sound, he offered for work and found that no man would hire\nhim. His strange ill-luck cut him off from fellowship, so strong was the\nsuspicion that a malignant influence had marked him down jealously. The\nonly one to withstand the general verdict, to link him in, to persuade\nsome favour to his hands, was the unrewarded Philip, whose best endeavour\nbut won for him few, and brief, and ill-paid spells of labour. A many\nthere were who would not take his services at a gift, and he knew it.\nRefuse, stranded out of touch of the human tide, he hung idle on the\nquay, through shortening days from morn to night, resolutely patient of\nthe leaden hours and of the degradation on his famous strength.\n\nLois foresaw that bitter need might drive him away at last, but as yet\nshe could not bid him go, for Giles was slowly dying.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\nPhilip sought out Christian secretly, to hint that on a venture three\ngold pieces might be his. Christian understood him well enough. In the\nveiled language of the coast, a venture signified honourable service for\nbrave men, though the law of the land held otherwise, and rewarded it as\nfelony. A well-knit League carried on far and near a contraband trade in\nthe lives of proscribed men, and even the scrupulous honesty of Christian\nbrought no reluctance to engage.\n\n'When, and with whom?' he asked.\n\n'To-morrow, you and I,' said Philip, and watched him anxiously.\n\n'Then are you of the League?' said Christian indifferently, nettling the\nother, still in the young pride of a desired association. The Alien at\nhis best, he knew, would never have been reckoned fit; for though he\nexcelled in strength, he lacked head.\n\n'You and I together,' he said, 'are fairly equal to any other three, and\nso can our gains be the larger.'\n\nYet Christian would not readily close on the rich relief. He fixed on the\nother a thoughtful eye, pondering a question of fairness that might not\nbe imparted. Philip flushed a little.\n\n'I am answerable to the League,' he said nervously; 'and though from\noutsiders we exact oaths, I will take it upon me to accept as sufficient\nyour bare word for good faith and secrecy.'\n\nThis was no more than Christian's credit had established; for from\nboyhood, under the strict schooling of Lois, he had kept to his word as\nsacredly as others to their oaths, and from pride and a scruple had ever\nrefused to be sworn.\n\nLong seemed the pause and the trying scrutiny before Christian sighed and\nsaid, 'So be it.'\n\n'And secrecy?'\n\n'I promise secrecy.'\n\n'And you will not refuse a strict promise to obey orders--mine?'\n\nA vague foreboding warned Christian to stay, but reason could not\nsufficiently uphold it against his dire need of the gold. He promised.\n\n'I take it,' said Philip carelessly, 'that your boat would be the easier\nto handle. Mine is over heavy for two.'\n\n'I cannot risk what is not wholly mine.'\n\n'The League makes good all loss. And remember,' he looked away, and his\nvoice had a strange note, 'if we do not come back--for long--or ever--the\nLeague sees to it that our folk do not want.'\n\nChristian looked at him hard.\n\n'Agreed,' he said first; and then, 'You think that likely?'\n\n'A venture is a venture; and, well, I may say that two ventures have\nmiscarried, so many and brisk are the chasers; and I know of some who\nhave fought shy of this one. I volunteered,' he said with pride.\n\nSo they went their ways, Philip bidding his conscience lie still and\nmute, Christian questioning his.\n\nSave Giles, never had any man put out in that boat with the Alien. As the\ntwo slid out under early night, Philip looked at him, wondering if his\nwits were sound enough to tell him this, himself misliking the instance\novermuch now. The sea was black and sullen, and the wind chill;\nChristian, silent and indifferent, was no heartening mate; and the shadow\nof night brought out a lurid streak in the venture that viewed under\ndaylight had been but dull and faint.\n\nThe stealthy boat crept on till midnight; now and then from the cusp of a\nbay floated out the faint cry of a quail. Then thrice it sounded, when\nthe boat swooped in, touched, and with a third aboard, sprang away swift\nas a fishing gull.\n\nAbout to the west, then, Christian steered as Philip gave word; still\nwest and west. He did not scan the stranger with natural interest, nor\nhad he yet asked one question on their goings, though they were\nstretching for a coast known to him by fatal influence. When the very\nroar of evil waters sounded, and through it the first expostulation of a\nbuoy bell, Philip's scrutiny could still detect no reluctance.\n\nOh! fain now would he see a touch of human infirmity for fellowship;\nnight had entered his blood, and shocks of horrid fear coursed; too stark\nand dreadfully mute was the figure at the helm for him to be void of\napprehension. And the terrors of the sinister place, that his venture was\nto set at nought, according to a daylight mind, came beating in against\nunstable defences, entered, and took possession.\n\nChristian stooped over the gunwale, peering into the dark water. At\nthat, Philip's hand went searching hurriedly about the bow, and that he\nsought was missing. He braced himself and approached the Alien.\n\n'Christian, has she never a twig of rowan at her bows?'\n\nThe face that turned he could not see to read. 'No,' was the curt answer,\nand shaken through, he drew off with doubled thumbs.\n\nToo late now he doubted Christian to be no tool for handling with\nimpunity. And worse he dreaded, out of a dark teeming with possibilities,\ndreadful to human flesh and human spirit. His hair rose, and he flung\nprayers to the hierarchy of heaven, but chiefly to those three--St. Mary,\nSt. Margaret, and St. Faith. Comfort it was to draw to the side of one\nwho abode, as he himself, within the limits of the five human senses. The\nquiet voice of the Adventurer rallied him.\n\n'What goes wrong?'\n\n'We bear no rowan, nor leaf, nor berry.'\n\n'Rowan! for protection against evil spirits?'\n\n'Ah! name them not. Not here and now. Rather turn your thumbs against\nthem, and watch him.'\n\n'Him! your chosen mate?'\n\n'God forgive me, and help us--yes. Sir, I tell you, laughter here is\nmore than folly--it is wickedness. No, I will not be questioned how and\nwhy. There--look there!'\n\nHe grasped the sceptic's arm and pointed; Christian again had suddenly\nleaned down to peer over the boat's side.\n\n'What does he see?'\n\nPhilip's teeth chattered. 'God knows, I dare not think.'\n\nHe crowded sail recklessly, and the boat leapt along, quivering like a\nthing in fear. At speed they fled on further west, till the Sinister\nbuoys were all passed by, and the Land's End drew up and turned behind\nthem. Then Philip, with a heart lighter by some degrees, hove to, close\nfurled, to wait and watch through the chill, long hours, till nearing\ndawn turned them back to the safe desolation of the evil place.\n\nDaylight better than dark speech declared the three to each other. The\nAdventurer considered well the men charged with his life and fortunes. Of\na splendid make they were, both above the common in stature and strength,\nand well favoured in singular contrast. A practised student of his kind\ncould read lines of weakness, and some feminine virtues also, in the\ndark, oval face with luminous, fine eyes, and a mouth too fully perfect\nfor a man, and could read on the face from the resolute north a square\nthreat of obstinacy showing from the bones out, and daring and truth in\nthe grey eyes, deep set, and from brow to chin every imprint of\nintegrity. Both faces were set and haggard, and their eyes encountered\nwith a sombre disaffection that augured but ill for success. Strife was\nlatent.\n\nChristian's glance rested on the Adventurer, unhooded to the morning\nlight, and he guessed him, and knew him by silver mane and black brows an\nold lion-lord of a famous herd. The ray of recognition was caught and\nweighed. 'He has not been trusted, yet his looks are fit,' ran the old\nman's thoughts. He weighed Philip, whose features twitched, whose hands\nwere nervous, who eyed his fellow with an uncertain glance, wavering at a\nreturn impassive as stone. Without hesitation he questioned for\nclearance.\n\n'Is all well--so far?'\n\n'Ay--so far?'\n\n'At your discretion I would hear how our chances lie, and on what side\nperil. To a landsman we carry on in an aimless fashion.'\n\nPhilip looked at him straight enough, then furtively towards Christian.\nThe stranger dropped his voice.\n\n'Is danger yonder?'\n\nPhilip did not answer him, and strengthened in misdoubt, he spoke with a\nnote of authority.\n\n'I would know your plans.'\n\n'You shall,' said Philip, but still he looked at Christian, and found it\nhard to begin. He took heart of wine.\n\n'Hearken--you also, Christian.\n\n'Sir, my undertaking is to put you aboard a foreigner, due to pass with\nher consorts off the Land's End, may be this day, or to-morrow at latest,\nwhose part is but to contrive so that darkness may cover this bit of\ncontraband trade.\n\n'Your flight discovered will for sure have brought an embargo on all the\ncoast. Not a sail will be out, but chasers on the watch. Ashore now, not\na chance were possible; but we took wing betimes; and here may we bide\nunder daylight, and at night make again for the Land's End to watch our\nchance.'\n\n'Go on. This contrivance is too incredibly bald to suffice. How, then,\nwhen presently a patrol sails round yonder head?'\n\n'May Heaven forfend!'\n\n'Heaven! are you mad? Is all our security to be the grant by Heaven of a\nmiracle?'\n\n'First, sir, I will tell you that we are like enough to be unharried;\nfor it cannot be in mortal reckoning that we should dare here, since this\nplace is a death-trap to be given wide berth in winter gales.'\n\n'The very place to seek men fugitive and desperate.'\n\n'By your leave, sir, I came into this venture as a volunteer, and not\nfrom desperation.\n\n'The special danger of these coasts you do not know. Our winter storms,\nsudden and fierce, strike here at their hardest. Learned men say that\nhigh ranges leagues off over sea make a funnel to set them here. We\nfishers have another way of thinking--no matter what. But 'tis wide known\nthat there is no record of any boat caught in a winter burst within sound\nof these breakers living to boast of it.'\n\n'Is, then, the favour of Heaven also to be engaged to preserve from storm\nas from chase?'\n\nPhilip, tongue and throat, was dry, and he drank again deeply.\n\n'You tell me of risks that I cannot bring myself to believe a volunteer\nwould engage; not though, as I hear, he doubled his price.'\n\nWine and resentment mounted a flush.\n\n'You do ill, sir, to fleer at a man who for your service risks freedom,\nlife--ay, more than life--but that you would not believe; for you\nlaughed, under night even, you laughed!'\n\n'By heavens! every look of a death-trap comes out on your own showing;\nand except you show me the key to unlock it, I myself will hazard the\nforcing; I and your mate yonder, who well I see is not in your\nconfidence, whose face tells that he has no liking for you and your\ndoings.'\n\nChristian turned away and made no response.\n\n'For God's sake, sir,' whispered Philip then, 'have patience, or you ruin\nall!'\n\n'Let be that wine and speak out.'\n\n'Drink you, Christian.'\n\nHe refused. Philip fetched breath for a plunge.\n\n'Bear me out, Christian, when I say that one there is who can do what\nnone other living can--and will.'\n\nChristian waited with a face of stone.\n\n'Who can carry us safe through the reefs. Christian--this--you\npromised--you must undertake this.\n\n'Look you, we may never be driven to it; a far ship could not easily make\nus out against this broken background.\n\n'Christian, not another soul knows or shall know. Sir, you can tell him\nthat the League had not even a guess. I stood out for that.\n\n'You asked nothing. Had you but cared to ask, I would have told you\nearlier. You may have guessed; you cannot deny you are able. Sir, he is;\nand when I asked his services, he promised--without reserve he promised.\n\n'Christian, you never have failed of your word; all your life that has\nbeen your pride, and so have I relied on it--a man's life relies on it.'\n\nChristian kept an averted face, and stared down into the water.\n\n'You can--I know you can!'\n\n'I can.'\n\n'And you will--to your promise I trusted.'\n\n'I promised, and I will.'\n\nPhilip grasped his hand in cordial gratitude; Christian suffered it, but\nhis face was sullen. The Adventurer saw sweat standing on the brow of\neach, so that he wondered at what were behind.\n\nPhilip turned with a brightened eye.\n\n'Now, sir, you may see that our chances are not so desperate, since, from\nstorm or chase, we can put to safe haven beyond the reefs, to wait or\ndodge; or at worst, to get ashore and take to the hills--a put back, but\nto you a good exchange for four walls. Only I have a thing to ask of you,\nsir, come good or ill: that you will never breathe to a soul of this way\nof escape.'\n\nThe Adventurer eyed him with something of distrust still, while he\nfingered his beard thoughtfully and smiled, half sneering.\n\n'I understand--you would preserve a monopoly, and continue a good trade.\nBut it looks to me that you have done some cheating by your mate, that\nmight make him decline partnership and seek his own market.'\n\n'By heavens! you are over ready with your imputations!' said Philip,\nangry. 'The Alien there is welcome to make what profit he can for me.\nNever with my goodwill shall I be here again. For why I undertook it, I\nhad my own good reasons, which concern you not at all. But I will tell\nyou that I know not of another man who would dare partnership with the\nAlien--ay, ask him, and he will not deny it; or who would put body and\nsoul in jeopardy in this place.'\n\nThe Adventurer turned to Christian, smiling, courting friendly\nintelligence.\n\n'You, it appears, have put body and soul in jeopardy, and know the place;\nand body and soul are none the worse.'\n\nWithout any answer, Christian looked at him, and colour ebbed from his\nface. Philip touched for warning, and with lifted finger indicated the\nwant, half guessed already by that fixed, blank gaze.\n\n'Answer only at your pleasure, but for my soul's salvation I do desire to\nknow what threats it here.'\n\nFor the moment Philip did not suspect derision. Discreetly he told of the\nfatal tradition, that the settled conviction of generations had brought\nmen fatally to uphold and abet. So much of reason he had discovered for\nhimself, and he desired that Christian should hear.\n\nThe work was taken out of his hands by a skilled master. The reverend\nsuperstition was subjected to all the disintegrating forces that human\nscepticism can range; and with cold reason, logic, and analogy, went such\ncharm of courteous tolerance, and wit, and wise and simple exposition, as\ntempered the mordant touch of lurking ridicule. He was but for pastime,\ntrying his practised touch upon two young fools. Half scared, half\nfascinated and admiring, Philip responded; Christian stayed sullen and\nsilent.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\nAt its nearest lay the Isle Sinister under noon. The Adventurer sighed\nfor the land as, cold and uneasy, he couched for needful sleep. Philip\nlay stretched beside him, Christian, according to his own preference,\ntaking the first watch. Out of new bravado, Philip passed on to Christian\na muttered question: Could he now carry them in and land them on the very\nIsle?\n\nLike a bolt came Christian's answer: 'Drowned and damned both shall you\nbe before I will.'\n\nPhilip rose up, startled by the answer and the unexpected intimacy it\nacknowledged. But the voice had been of level quiet, and the Alien's face\nshowed no anger. The Adventurer watched with a sardonic smile; and\nPhilip, forcing a show of unconcern that he did not feel, muttered a word\nof madness and dropped back. For a while resurgent terrors thwarted\nsleep; but the quiet breathing of his neighbour, the quiet outlook of\nthe Alien, told on his shaken nerves, and slumber overtook him. Christian\nstayed waking alone.\n\nAh! the relief. He stood up to take free, deep breath, and stretched his\ngreat limbs. Long, intently, with shaded eyes, he stared towards the Isle\nSinister. Ah! nothing, and well nothing. Could she trust that he\nmeditated no trespass? that he would allow none? Could she deem that he\noffered no insane resentment against her severity? A sea-gull flapped\nclose past his head, but was mute.\n\nHe turned and looked down on the sleepers, and his face, illegible for\nmany a day, showed bitter resentment and scorn. Shamefully had he been\nbeguiled, trapped, bound by a promise; and wanton goading had not lacked,\nall but intolerable. Fools! their lives were in his hand; and he was\nawake. Awake, as for months he had not been; his pulses were leaping to\nfull heart-beats, there was stir in his brain; and therewith, dislike and\ncontempt exciting, the keen human passion of hate lay torpid no longer;\nit moved, it threatened to run riot.\n\nWho dare claim loyal service from him? Philip! One boat had been familiar\nwith these reefs: somewhere in the past murder rested unavenged. Philip!\n\nIn the deep water that the boat shadowed a darkness slid, catching his\neye. He peered, but it was gone. Before, and not once only, had an\nimpression seized him, by deliberate sight not verified, that a sinister\nattendance lurked below. Now unconstrained he could watch.\n\nGreat dread possessed him. Storm and chase were light perils, not to be\ncompared with her displeasure, her mere displeasure, irrespective of how\nshe might exert it. With heavy grief had he borne late estrangement, and\nher severe chastisement of offence. Were his limbs but for his own\nservice, lightly, so soon as they were able, had he risked them again to\nworship his love and seek grace. Alas! she could not know that loyal, and\nstrong, and tender his devotion held; she would but see an insolent and\nbase return, meriting final condemnation. Helpless rages of grief urged\nhim to break from all bonds, and plunge headlong to engage her wrath or\nher mercy. He cast on the sleepers then a thought, with ugly mirth,\nmocking the control of his old enemy in his heart.\n\nHow would she take the forfeit! With her rocks and waves she had broken\nhim once, and the surrender of all his bones to them in despair he had\nfirmly contemplated; but human flesh and spirit shrank from horrors\nunknown, that she might summon for vengeance. Could he but see what\nlurked below.\n\nSpite of the ripe mutiny in him he minded his watch, and swept the\nhorizon momently with due attention. The day altered as the slow hours\ndragged: a thin film travelled up the clear sky; the sun took a faint\ndouble halo, while the sea darkened to a heavy purple. He knew the signs:\nsmall chance was there now of a stormless night. Not two hours of full\ndaylight were left when below the sun rose a sail. His hopes and fears\ntook little hold on it, for as yet it was but a speck; and he knew that\nbefore it could close darkness would be upon them, and belike storm also.\n\nWith a desperate remedy before his eyes a devil's word was in his ears:\nthe League makes good all loss. Foul play? Nay, but had not the League by\nPhilip played him foul first, with injury not to be made good. And those\nfor whose sake he had owed regard for his wretched life would be bettered\nby his loss.\n\nWhen Philip rose up from sleep a blackness stood upon the distant sea,\nthreatening the sun; the chill wind had dropped, but a heavy, sullen\nswell insisted of a far-off tyranny advancing. To him no sail showed, but\nChristian flung him word of it, and his sinking heart caught at high\nhope.\n\nThen, since their vigil was soon to pass, Philip dared greatly; for he\nbade Christian sleep, set hand himself to sail and tiller, glided in past\nthe buoys, and rocked at trespass.\n\n'It is safer so, should the haze part,' he said, but his voice shook.\n\nThe Alien said never a word; each looked the other hard in the eyes,\npaling.\n\n'The League makes good all loss,' said Philip, low. 'And if so be that\nonly some forgery of a loss can cover a fair claim, you may count on\nmy--what you will--as you please.'\n\nChristian refused hearing. Flung down for unattainable sleep he lay\nstretched, covering his head to inspect by the light of darkness his\nwrongs, and Philip's treason, that left to him nothing but a choice of\ntransgression.\n\nThe blackness stood higher and crept on. The sun was captured, shorn,\ndisgraced, and sent bald on his way; a narrow streak of red bleeding\nupon the waters died slowly; all else was slate-black. Above the gloom of\nthe cliffs the sky showed blanched, clear and pale. Ghostly white the\nsea-birds rose and fell. The tide was rising, deepening the note of the\nsurf; between the warders white columns leapt up with great gasps.\n\nIt was Rhoda's name that Philip whispered over, to strengthen his heart\nat the perilous outlook. The make of his love had a certain pride in\noverbearing such weak scruples as a tough conscience permitted. Half he\nfeared that the Alien's poor wits had yet not recognised the only path\nleft open by a skilful provision; for there he lay motionless, with the\nslow breath of untroubled sleep. He would not fear him; with Rhoda's\nname, with hope on the unseen sail, he fortified his heart.\n\nIn the deep water unshadowed by the boat a darkness slid, catching his\neye. He peered, but it was gone. His heart stood in his throat; a palsy\nof terror shook him. Oh speak, speak, St. Mary, St. Margaret, St. Faith,\nhelp a poor body--a poor soul!\n\nWhen he could stir he headed about, and slunk away for the open, out of\nthe accursed region. A draught of wine steadied him somewhat, and softly\noverstepping Christian he roused the Adventurer, to get comfort of human\nspeech. He told of the coming storm, he told of the coming sail, but of\nthat other thing he said nothing. Yet presently the Adventurer asked why\nhe shook. 'It is for cold,' and he drank again. And presently asked, what\ndid he look for over the side? 'A shark's fin,' he said, 'that I thought\nI saw,' and he drank again.\n\nAt their feet Christian lay motionless, heeding nothing outside his\ndarkness. Yet presently the Adventurer said further: 'He sleeps. From\nwhat disquiet should you eye him so?'\n\n'If you list you shall know of his past,' muttered Philip. His speech was\na little thick.\n\nFrom the coming from the sea of the alien child he started, and rambled\non, with fact and fiction very inextricably mingled; but the hearer could\nmake out the main truth of the blasting of a proud young life, and\npitied, and was minded now to make large allowance for any misdemeanour.\n\nFrom their feet Christian rose, and without a look removed to the bows.\nThey were stricken to silence.\n\nSuddenly Philip clutched the other, staring down. Both saw and blanched,\nthough what they glimpsed gave to them no shape for a name. It was gone.\n\n'What is it?'\n\n'No rowan! not a leaf.'\n\nAt that the old man mastered his nerves and laughed scorn in his beard.\nPhilip cast a scared look towards Christian.\n\n'Last night,' he whispered, 'he looked over the side. I saw\nhim--twice--it was for this.'\n\n'What is it?'\n\n'You saw. That was his familiar.'\n\n'Now look you,' returned the other with grave sarcasm, 'that is a\ncreature I have seen never, and would gladly. You, if you be skilled as a\nfisher, catch me that familiar, and I will pay you in gold; or in broad\nsilver if you win me but a fair sight.'\n\nPhilip, ashy white, crossed himself. 'Heaven keep us! The one bait were a\nhuman soul.'\n\nNot with all his art and wisdom could the Adventurer now reinstate the\nearlier hardihood of his companion. Against a supplement by wine he\nprotested.\n\n'Sir,' said Philip, sullen, 'I have braved enough for you and my\nconscience, and more. Longer here I will not bide; no, not for any\nprice. We go to meet our fortune yonder of friend or foe.'\n\nThe Adventurer looked at him and smiled. 'You miscount. Should I and he\nyonder, the Alien, be of another mind, your course may be ordered\notherwise.'\n\nTaken in his own toils, Philip glared in wrath and fear, sundered from a\ncommon cause, an adversary.\n\nFrom the shrouded sea grew a roar; Christian sprang up; the darkness\nswayed forward, broke, and flew shredded; a line of racing waves leapt\nupon them as with icy stroke the squall passed. Through the broken\nvapours a rim of sun showed on the horizon; and there full west beat a\ntall three-master; a second was standing nearer; of a third a sway of\nmist withheld certainty. Here rose hope wellnigh clear of doubt.\n\nBut the mists spread down again with twilight adding. The House Monitory\nwoke and spoke far behind as they went to windward. Now Christian\nsteered.\n\nAgain was he aware of a stealthy threat moving below, and again looking\nhe could nothing define. He was seen of both: the Adventurer came boldly\nto his side, and Philip dare not bide aloof. They peered, and he would\nnot.\n\nFor an intolerable moment he forbore them, gripping the tiller hard.\n\n'There is it!' said the old man. 'What say you is the creature? Your mate\nhas named it--your familiar,' and he laughed.\n\nEven then Christian forbore still, though the stress of long hours of\nrepressed passion culminated in a weight of frantic anger and loathing,\ncruel to bear.\n\nThen Philip lied, denying his words, and Christian knew that he lied; his\ncrafty wits disturbed by wine, reverse, and fear, he blundered,\nprotesting overmuch.\n\nSaid the Adventurer grimly: 'Now my offer holds good for silver or gold;\nbe you man enough to back your words, you who would give me the lie?'\n\nWithout tackle men take fish by flamelight, spearing; and thus fell the\nwording of Philip's menace, as, reeling between fear and resentment on\neither hand, he cried wildly:\n\n'I care not--though, by heavens! a famous take may come of it. We have\nbut to try fire.'\n\nChristian gripped him, very death in his face and in his strength; swayed\nhim from his feet; gripped the harder for his struggles, till the ribs\nof the poor wretch gave, and cracked within his arms; with a great heave\nhad him shoulder high; with another could have flung him overboard. And\ndid not.\n\nOn the finest verge of overpoise he held, swung round with a slackening\nhold, and dropped him like a cast bale to the bottom of the boat. Then he\ncaught the tiller and clung to it with the strength of a drowning man.\n\nPhilip lay groaning, broken and wrung in body and mind. He realised a\ndreadful truth: for one brief second he had seen in Christian's eyes\nfierce, eager hatred; clear, reasonable, for informed by most\ncomprehensive memory; mad he was, but out of no deficiency; mad, with\nnever a blank of mind to disallow vengeance; as cunning and as strong he\nwas as ever madness could make a man; unmasked, a human devil.\n\nThe Adventurer lifted him and felt his bones, himself half stunned and\nbleeding, for he had been flung heavily from unpractised balance, as\nsuddenly the boat lurched and careened in the wallop of the sea.\n\nThe menace of an extreme peril closed their difference, compelling\nfellowship. They counselled and agreed together with a grasp and a nod\nand few words. Philip fumbled for his knife, unclasped, and showed it.\n'Our lives or his. Have you?' 'Better,' returned the other, and had out a\nlong dagger-knife sheathed, that he loosened to lie free for instant use.\n'It has done service before. Can you stand? are you able?' It was\ndarkening so that sight could inform them but little concerning the\nAlien.\n\nChristian was regarding them not at all. From head to foot he was\ntrembling, so that he had ado to stand upright and keep the boat\nstraight. Not from restraint his lips were bitten and his breath laboured\nhard: quick revulsion had cast him down, so passion-spent,\nconscience-stricken, and ashamed, that scarcely had he virtue left for\nthe face of a man.\n\nTheir advance strung him, for he saw the significant reserve of each\nright hand. That his misdeed justified any extreme he knew, not conscious\nin his sore compunction of any right to resist even for his life. He\nwaited without protest, but neither offered to strike.\n\nReason bade for quick despatch--very little would have provoked it; but\nnot Philip at his worst could conduct a brutal butchery, when conviction\ndawned that a human creature stood at their mercy by his own mere\nresolute submission. With names of coward and devil he struck him first,\nbut they did not stir him to affording warrant. The Adventurer took up\nthe word.\n\n'Brutal coward, or madman, which you be, answer for your deed; confess\nyou are a traitor paid and approved.'\n\nHe shook his head.\n\n'Why else have you now half murdered your fellow? Verily are you an alien\nthrough and through, for no man born on these shores would so basely\nbetray a trust.'\n\n'Nor I,' he got out, and rather wished they would strike with their\nhands.\n\n'You lie!' said his accuser; 'or robbery, or murder, or treachery you\nintend--or all. Own your worst; try it; this time openly, fairly: your\nbrute strength upon two who are not your match: on your mate damaged from\nyour foul handling: on an old man, whose gold you have taken, the trust\nof whose life you have accepted.'\n\nHe could not attempt a protest, though his heart was like to break\nenforced to silence. The other advanced in temerity with an order.\n\n'You have a knife. Give it up.'\n\nHe obeyed without a word. Then the two made no reserve, but with a show\nof bare steel proved his temper. He did not lift a hand.\n\nLois might come to hear of his transgression: she would never know how\nhard it was to atone, because they dawdled so cruelly, because he knew\nthey would bungle so cruelly: he did not think either had force to drive\na blade home at a stroke.\n\nThe Adventurer paused. Here without madness was a guilty wretch cowed at\ndetection, abject as a wolf in a pit!\n\n'We would not your blood on our hands, yet to no oath of yours may our\nlives trust.'\n\n'I would not offer it.'\n\n'Only as the wild beast you showed yourself, look to be kept bound.'\n\nSuch putting to shame was simply just, but oh! hard.\n\n'I may not withstand you,' he said, hardly, steadily, 'but ah, sir! ah,\nPhilip, suffer me! If this night I am to go to my account, I do greatly\nrequire that, through my default, the lives of two men may not drop in\nthe loaded scale.'\n\nTo them the plea rang strained and false.\n\n'We choose our risk; against treachery of the skies will we rather\nprovide.'\n\nHe surrendered his hands to the Adventurer. Philip took the helm, but\nthe miserable culprit winced to hear how the strain brought from him a\nsob of distress. The old man did his best under direction for shortening\nsail; but while yet this was doing, again the ominous roar sounded and\ngrew, and a squall caught them unready.\n\nThe light boat quivered in every plank as she reared against the heavy\ncharge; sheets of water flew over, blinding. Christian heard from the\nhelm a shriek of pain and despair, and at that, frantic, such an access\nof strength swelled in him, that suddenly his bonds parted like thread,\nand he caught the restive tiller out of Philip's incompetent hold. There\ncould be no further question of him whom by a miracle Heaven had thus\ngraced in strength for their service. And for their lives they needed to\nbale. Christian blessed the cruel, fierce elements.\n\nFar ahead heaved lights, revealed on the blown seas: far, so far. Right\nin their teeth drove the promised gale, with intermittent bursts of sleet\nand hail. Upon bodies brine-wet the icy wind cut like a knife. Twin\nlights sprang, low down, giving the wanted signal; bore down, then stood\naway: the appointed ship followed after her consorts, not daring, with a\ngale behind, to near the cruelest coast known.\n\nStruggling on under a mere stitch of canvas, the wind resenting even\nthat, clutching it, threatening to tear out the mast, they went reeling\nand shuddering on to their desperate fortune. For hours the long\nendeavour lasted, with gain on the double lights by such slow degrees as\nmocked at final achievement.\n\nExcept that his hands were like to freeze out of use Christian cared\nmarvellously little for outer miseries. To him all too short was the span\nof life left for retrieving one guilty minute; no future could he look\nfor to live it down, so certain had he become that this night death was\nhard after him.\n\nTwo stars reeling, kind, bright stars, shone life for others though not\nfor him. Perhaps for him, he wanted to believe; some coward drop in his\nblood tried to cheat reason and conscience. Why not for him? Could his\ndoom be so heavy as to sink that great bulk with its scores of souls? And\nthough now he should freely release others of his peril, who would ever\ncount it to him for righteousness, to soften the reproach that would lie\nagainst his name so long as ever it were remembered?\n\nThe cold touched his brain. Surely he had died before, long ago, out of\nall this pain and distress. Waves heaved gigantically; spray dashed hard\nin his face; he shrank humanly, knowing he was not fit to die; she was\ncoming through the sea bringing life. No, ah! not now. She was lurking in\nthe sea holding death.\n\n'Madness and treason are not in him.'\n\n'He is a devil,' said Philip, 'a very devil. See! Go you now, and feign\nto persuade for abandoning the boat, and shipping together.'\n\n'That will I in all good faith,' and he went and came again.\n\n'First he refused outright; then he said, when the moment came we should\nknow as well as he.'\n\n'I knew it, I knew it,' chattered Philip, 'oh, a devil he is! Sir, you\nwill see me out of his hands. I know what he intends: on the instant you\nquit the boat he casts off and has me at his mercy, he and that thing\nbelow. I am no coward, and it ill becomes you to hint it; and I fear\ndeath no more than any sinner must, no clean, straight death.\n\n'Sir, his putting out of life was long and bloody: I saw it; death by\ninches. And he looked at me with infernal hatred then; the very same I\nsaw in his eyes but now. Why should he check at sudden murder, but for a\nfouler revenge. You cannot judge as I. You have not seen him day after\nday. Treacherously he accepts friendship; he feigns to be witless; and\nall the while this hell-fire is hidden out of sight. You do not know how\nhe has been denied opportunity, till rashly I offered it.\n\n'O sir, quit of him this once, I am quit of him for ever! No, I mean no\nvillainy against him, but--but--it happens--there is every inducement for\nhim to choose that he and his boat never be seen of us again. Drown? no,\nhe never was born to drown. The devil sees to his own.\n\n'It is true--true. You saw the Thing yourself. Also, did he not refuse an\noath? So has he all his life. Now know I: there are certain words he for\nhis contract may not utter.'\n\nWhen tall masts rocked above, and voices hailed, and a rope shot across,\nagain the Adventurer pressed Christian hard with precious human kindness.\nMen big and fair-haired were shouting, knocking at his heart strangely.\nMost foolish and absurd came a longing just once before he died to be\nwarm and dry again, just once. He shook his head.\n\nPhilip kept off, nor by word or sign offered the forgiveness he ached\nafter, but hasted to pass first. Then the other followed; he loosed the\nrope; it leapt away. The last face he saw gleaming above him was\nPhilip's, with its enmity and a ghastly drawn smile of relief: never to\nbe seen of him again.\n\nHow long would her vengeance delay? The vast anger of the sea leaped and\nroared round him, snatching, striking. An hour passed, and he was still\nafloat, though the mast was gone; and near another, and he was still\nafloat, but by clinging to an upward keel. In cruel extremity, then, he\ncried the name of Diadyomene, with a prayer for merciful despatch, and\nagain her name, and again.\n\nDiadyomene heard. The waves ran ridged with light that flickered and\nleaped like dim white flame. Phosphor fires edged the keel; a trailing\nrope was revealed as a luminous streak. He got it round his body, and his\nhands were eased.\n\nUp from below surged a dark, snaky coil, streaming with pale flakes of\nfire; it looped him horribly; a second length and a third flung over him;\na fourth overhung, feeling in air. A loathsome knot worked upon the\nplanks, spread, and rooted there. He plucked an arm free, and his neck\nwas circled instead. His knife he had not: barehanded he fought,\nfrenzied by loathing of the foul monster, the foulest the sea breeds.\n\nBefore his eyes rose the sea's fairest, towered above him on the rush of\na wave, sank to his level. Terrible was her face of anger, and cruel, for\nshe smiled. She flung out a gesture of condemnation and scorn, that\nflashed flakes of light off shoulder and hair. She called him 'traitor,'\nand bade him die; and he, frantic, tore away the throttled coil at his\nthroat, and got out, 'Forgive.'\n\nLike challenge and defiance she hurled then her offer of mercy: 'Stretch,\nthen, your hand to me--on my lips and my breast swear, give up your soul:\nthen I forgive.'\n\nShe heard the death agony of a man cried then. Ceasing to struggle, his\nthroat was enwound again; both arms were fast: he cried to his God to\nresume his soul, and to take it straight out of his body and out of hell.\n\nAway she turned with teeth clenched and furious eyes; then, writhing, she\nreturned, reached out, with one finger touched, and the foul creature\nshrank, relaxed, drew coil by coil away, dropped, and was gone.\nDiadyomene flashed away.\n\nWhen the night and the trouble of the storm were past, not a ship afloat\nwas scatheless. From one that crawled disabled, a boat was spied,\ndrifting keel upward, with the body of a man hanging across it, whose\nbright hair shone in the early sun, making a swarter race wonder. Against\nall conjecture life proved to be in him yet. And what unimaginable death\nhad been at him? What garland was this on his throat: blossoms of blood\nunder the skin? When he was recovered to speech he would not say. Good\nchristian men, what could they think? His boat was righted, and with\nscant charity he was hustled back into it; none of these, suddenly eager\nto be quit of him, wishing him God-speed.\n\nUnder cover of night he crawled up to his home, dreading in his guilt to\nface the dear, stern eyes of his mother. Ah! no, he entered to no\nquestioning and little heed: the two women sat stricken with sorrow; not\nfor him: in the room beyond Giles lay dead.\n\nSo Christian's three gold pieces buried Giles with such decent honour as\nLois could desire.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\nChristian's misdoing was not to pass unregarded.\n\nA woman turned upon Rhoda passing with a mutter so like a curse that the\ngirl's surprise struck her to a pause. It was Philip's mother who faced\nher, glowering hate.\n\n'What have you done with my boy?'\n\n'I?' said Rhoda, with widening eyes, though she blushed.\n\n'You--smooth-faced chit--yes, you! Oh, keep those fine eyes and that\ncolour to take in men, for me they will not! I can see through you! I\nknow you, and the games you are playing!'\n\n'What then?' flashed Rhoda. 'You accuse me? Of what? and by what right?'\n\n'Right! The right of a mother whose son you have driven away.'\n\n'He is nothing to me--never will be--never--nothing!'\n\n'I know it. I know it well, and I told him so: nothing! 'Tis only your\nvanity to have at your heels the properest lad and the bravest of the\nplace.'\n\n'He!' cried Rhoda, in disdain.\n\n'Ay, I know how your fancy has run, against natural liking for the\ndark-haired and dark-eyed of your own race; your vagary goes after fair\nhair and grey eyes. Well, see for all your sly offers that great blond\ndolt gapes and gapes over your bait, never closing to it. That northern\nblood is half brine.'\n\nRhoda stood speechless; her anger, shame, and pain transcended blushes,\nand she changed to dead white.\n\n'And you pick out one who can love like a man, who fires at a word or a\nlook, and him you delight to stab and torment with your cruel tongue,\nwhile you use him for your ends. Shameless! You have dropped yourself\ninto his arms even, so to heat the Alien from his fishes' blood. May I\nlive to see you put to shame of some man!'\n\n'He said--oh, vile--of me! Cur, cur!'\n\n''Tis I that can read between the lines, not he, poor blind fool! Miscall\nhim! ay, you have got the trick. You may bring up faults against\nhim--some do; but I tell you no man will do greatly amiss who still goes\nto his old mother and opens his heart to her.'\n\nRhoda's breath caught like a sob at that, for there unknowingly went a\nstroke at Christian. She gathered herself together for bitter onslaught,\nfor outraged pride and indignation drove out compunction, drove out any\nmercy. Out it all shrivelled at a blasting thought that stopped her very\nheart. Mute she stood, white, shuddering, staring. Then she got out a\nwhisper.\n\n'When did he go--tell me? Since--my uncle died--or--before?'\n\n'Well enough you know 'twas before----'\n\nRhoda turned and fled homeward, fleet as terror, though her knees went\nslack and her brain reeled. She drew bolts before her dreadful incoherent\nwhispers welled out to Lois.\n\n'Where he went she did not know, did not guess, never thought it was on a\nplanned venture. None would think of that, or think that two alone would\nsuffice, or dream of Christian--I had thought that strange--you too. And\nwe know Christian went on a venture, by the three gold pieces we know:\nand that could not have been alone, and he is not of the League. And I\nthought it had been with Philip; and I thought Philip meant\nkindness--perhaps for my sake, which vexed me. Oh, perhaps it was for my\nsake, and I was vexed! Yet see, none others guess it nor do conceive that\nany, in any cause, would go hand in hand with our Christian. And none\nwould greatly mark his goings and comings--Christian's--for unreason has\nso chartered his ways. Then, though both were away that same day, not\neven his mother had noted it. And oh! think of Christian in these days!\nHas sorrow only been heavy at his heart? And a hurt on his throat he\nwould not show. And oh!' she said, 'and oh!' she said, and failed and\ntried again, 'oh! his knife--_he has not his knife_.'\n\nThe love and faith of Lois sprang up against belief.\n\n'Child, child! what do you dare to say--to think? Would you hint that\nChristian--my boy Christian--has done murder?\n\n'No, no, never! No, never, never! I would stake my life--my soul--that it\nwas fair fight!'\n\nLois looked at her and said a cruel thing: 'You are no helpmeet for him.\nThank God! you are not his wife!'\n\nRhoda quivered at that, and found it a saying hard to forgive. Her heart\nswelled to refute it, and might not for maidenhood. Long ago she would\nhave had Christian rise up to avenge himself terribly; her pride had\nsuffered from the poor temper she saw in his. Now, though he had\nexceeded the measure of her vague desire, he stood fair and high in her\nestimation, illuminated, not blackened by the crime she imputed. Against\nall the world, against his mother, she was at one with him. Was there any\nother who desired and deserved the nearest and dearest claim, that she\nhad renounced.\n\nA wedge of silence drove between them. The character of the mother's\nstern virtue dawned upon Rhoda, appalling her: for the salvation of her\nson's soul she might bid him accept the full penalty of his crime--even\nthat. A horror of such monstrous righteousness took the girl. She stole\nto unbolt the door and away to warn Christian, when a whisper stayed her.\n\n'I failed him. I thought then only of my man, and I had no prayers for my\nboy. Ah, Christian, Christian!'\n\nDoubt had entered. Lois knelt and prayed.\n\nRhoda wavered. Her estimate or the world's, the partial or the\nvindictive, shrank to their due proportions, as Lois thus set Christian's\ncrime before the eye of Heaven. She wavered, turned, and fell kneeling,\nclinging and weeping, convicted of the vain presumption that would keep\nChristian from the hands of his God.\n\nShe was bidden away when Lois caught a sound of Christian.\n\nHis mother held him by the window for the first word.\n\n'Christian, where is Philip?'\n\nHis startled eyes were a stab to her soul; the tide that crimsoned his\nvery brow checked hers at her heart. He failed of answering, and guilt\nweighed down his head. She rallied on an inspiration that greatest crimes\nblanch, never redden, and 'You have not killed him?' was a question of\nlittle doubt.\n\n'No, thank God! no!' he said, and she saw that he shook.\n\nThen he tried to out with the whole worst truth, but he needed to labour\nfor breath before he could say with a catch: 'I meant to--for one\nmoment.'\n\nTo see a dear face stricken so! Do the damned fare worse? More dreadful\nthan any reproach was her turning away with wrung hands. She returned to\nquestion.\n\n'Then where is he?'\n\n'I cannot tell. He left me. He would not--he was afraid.'\n\n'What had you done? You had harmed him?'\n\n'Yes,' he said, and told how.\n\n'What had he done to anger you? Had he struck first?'\n\n'No.'\n\n'You had quarrelled?'\n\n'No.'\n\n'Had you no excuse?' she said.\n\nHe hesitated. Could she know and understand all, there might be some pity\nwith her condemnation, there would be some tempering of her distress.\n\n'I can make none,' he had to answer.\n\nWhen next she spoke: 'Then it was old hate,' she said, and after a minute\nhe answered 'Yes' to that.\n\nSo she had to realise that for months, according to her gospel, he had\nbeen a murderer at heart; and her assurance of a merciful blank of mind\nand memory tottered, threatening a downfall that would prove the dear son\nof her hope of a rotten build. She tested his memory.\n\n'I asked a promise of you once, and you gave it.'\n\n'Yes,' he said, and, do what he would, 'I have broken it' got mangled\nwretchedly in his throat.\n\n'Your promise! Is it believable? You could--you!'\n\n'O mother! If God forgot me!'\n\nHer heart smote her because her prayers had deserted him then.\n\n'Oh, peace!' she said, 'and do not add blasphemy, nor seek to juggle with\nGod.'\n\nShe did not spare him, and deeply she searched his conscience.\nSelf-convicted already he was, yet his guilt looked freshly hideous\nworded by her, as look wounds, known to the senses of night, discovered\nby the eye of day.\n\nFor a whole dreadful hour Rhoda listened to the murmur of voices. Then\nthey ceased, and Lois came. 'Thank God, child!' was all she needed to\nsay.\n\n'Heaven forgive me! Can you? can he? Let me go to him--I must. Ah\nme!--can he forgive me?'\n\nLois held the door and turned her. 'He has nothing to forgive,' she said,\nand her face frightened questions.\n\nFrom among some poor hoards Lois drew out a tiny cross of gold. It was\nChristian's, sole relic left of his young unknown life. As a little lad\nhe had played with it and lost it, and Lois finding it had taken it into\nkeeping. Now she took it to him.\n\n'I will ask no renewal of a broken promise--no. I want no hard thing of\nyou, only this: when temptation to deadly sin is overbearing, before you\nyield, unfasten this and fling it from you into the sea. You will?\nChristian, answer--say, \"I will.\"'\n\n'What worth has any word of mine?' he said in his despair; but her arms\nwere round his neck fixing the knot, and stayed to clasp, but her rare\nterrible sobs rose as she cried, 'Oh, God help you, my son!' and 'I will,\nI will!' flew strong to assure her that that word would never have to be\nfulfilled.\n\nNear was the time that would put him to the test, and he knew it. A day\npassed and a day passed, out of eternity into eternity, and the moon\nfilled up to Diadyomene's account.\n\n'Rhoda,' he said, 'do you know what day this is?'\n\n'Christmas Eve.'\n\n'Yes--but to my mother--her child was born----'\n\n'Yes,' said Rhoda hurriedly, and bent her head: she for the first time\nknew her own birthday.\n\n'Listen, Rhoda! She has aged and weakened so; the day and night of prayer\nand fasting she has now begun I fear may outdo her strength. Will you\nkeep ever at hand to listen and be careful of her?'\n\n'And you?' asked Rhoda.\n\n'I may not stay. I cannot.'\n\nShe flashed a look of amazed indignation, for instinctively she knew that\nhe would be leaving his mother to seek the strange-named woman, and such\nfilial misconduct in him was hardly credible. No kind word or look would\nRhoda grant him. He never felt the lack: his mother's blessing he did\ngreatly desire, but he dared not intrude on the day of her mourning to\nask it.\n\nShort was the day and long the way, but over soon by some hours was he\nfooting it. The singular incidence of the day encouraged belief that a\nspecial mercy of Heaven was ordering his goings for the comforting of a\nlong sorrow. Ah! God grant her a soul from the sea, and ah! God grant it\nby me for a token. All his steps were taken to prayer, and the least\nthing he asked of his God was that, though his sins were so heavy, he\nmight not die till he had seen that salvation. His head and his heart\ntold him that if he failed in his high endeavour he must surely perish.\n\nOver the wold came a harsh call, and again till he answered and stayed.\nHe was making for waste stretches, gashed athwart by long gullies\npreventing any fair paths. Already, though but half a league forward,\ntracks had grown rough and uncertain. The voice came from a mudded\nhollow, where a loaded cart stuck fast, an old horse and an old man\nstriving with it in vain. Though loath to be hindered, Christian turned\naside to give help.\n\nHe was not graciously welcomed. The old man scowled, and swore under his\nbreath. 'The Alien, deuce take it, he will not serve!'\n\nBut he stared, and words failed when Christian promptly laid hand on the\nload, saying, 'Here's bad balancing, Gaffer; we had best uncord first and\nset it right.'\n\n'Ay, it shifted. Have it that way, if so you can and will. My two boys\ndid the cording, and two fools they be.'\n\nHe sidled away, muttering wonderful oaths as curiously he watched the\nAlien's tackling. The load was a tree brought down by the recent gale;\nprotruding roots clawed the mud behind; piled branches nodded to the\nfore, orange-red berries bright as coral dangling there. Christian's\ngreat strength made light of the work, and soon the cart went crawling\nout of the mire. He snapped off a twig to scrape the mud from his shins,\nand the gaffer's mutter then caught his ear.\n\n'He's done it--sure! Be danged if I reckoned he could. Well, well, some\nbe liars!'\n\n'In your best days, Gaffer, you might have done as much.'\n\nThe old face wrinkled with a sour grin.\n\n''Twas said you couldn't abide the rowan.'\n\n'Why?'\n\n'Well, I never asked. May be they lie who swear that never a twig of the\nrowan goes in your boat. Some have taken to say so.'\n\n'None, true enough. What then?' said Christian, and he noticed that the\nman had thrust a bunch of berries into his belt.\n\n'Well, there, 'tis not I that can give the reason.'\n\n'Can you think mine the only boat that goes without that garnish?'\n\n'I swear the only one.'\n\nChristian did not know how on his very account a prevalent custom had\ngained ground. He brought out a string of names.\n\n'Why, most of those from this very tree have had takings. 'Tis an ill\nwind that blows nowhere; for I reckon now to get a good price off this\ntimber--ay, to the last scrap, and 'tis you I owe some thanks for that.\nSo, look you, I have a mind, after I have made my profit, to open out of\nyour doing here with me and take the laugh. Hey? Ah! it seems to me that\nsome of your wits are left, so may be all I heard tell of was lies, when\n'twas said you had had games with the Evil One, and had lost to him both\nwits and soul.'\n\nChristian said slowly, 'You thought I had no soul?'\n\n'Never thought at all; why should I? Let fools think; I see. You, I see,\nbut now handle the rowan freely, and pass it to and fro, as never could\nyou have done had your soul known unholy tampering.'\n\nChristian stood stock-still, with an unseeing stare, till the old man\ncalled back to him, 'Come on, just to lend a hand up this pitch.' Then he\nran after, and so eagerly bore, that one spoke he broke.\n\nOn the level he said, strangely breathless, 'Now I want payment.'\n\n'What! A great hulking fellow can't go two steps out of his way and lift\na hand for one with old age in his bones but he asks payment!'\n\n'Yes,' said Christian, 'and for the love of God, give me the payment I\nshall ask.'\n\n'No promise, but what's your asking?'\n\n'Give me berries of the rowan.'\n\nWith his sour grin the old fellow muttered, 'Well, well, no wits after\nall!' as he plucked some bunches and chucked them across.\n\n'More! more! and oh! quick; I lose time. See, fill up my cap.'\n\n'All you can't have. My brats have been promised their handfuls, and want\nyou may.'\n\nWhen all that entreaty could get he had, Christian parted at a run, and\nthe way he took was home.\n\nRhoda wondered, seeing him pass the window. Presently, laying aside\nresentment, she went out to seek him in the linhay. The door resisted her\nhand.\n\n'Christian,' she called, and after his answer, 'Come in. What are you\nabout? Bring in your work; there is fire still.'\n\nHe said 'No' so forcibly, that she went away aggrieved, and a little\ncurious.\n\nAll was very quiet; of Lois she heard and saw nothing, and Christian made\nno noise at all. She wondered if he too were engaged in prayer; she\nwondered if she ought also to be so devoted.\n\nFrom the window she saw two figures on the road, and watched them idly.\nThey neared, and from the opposite approach came two others. All four\nwere known to her by sight, though hailing from some distance; they were\nkin to Philip; two were father and son, two were brothers. At the gate\nthey stood, and turned in.\n\nRhoda's heart dropped as she guessed their errand. To her a word from\nChristian were enough; but what solemnest oath, what evidence short of\nPhilip's self, would convince these?\n\nThey were knocking, while still her countenance was out of command; and\nwhen they asked for Christian, her wits were so troubled, that she said\nlamely, 'It is Christmas Eve; can you want him now?\n\n'Wait then--I will go--wait here, and he will come.'\n\nWhen she passed out and turned the wall, she knew by the sound of feet\nthat two had started to go about the contrary way to make against any\nescape. At the linhay door she knocked, again getting an impatient\nanswer.\n\n'Christian, come out, or let me in. You must.'\n\nHe came out and closed the door, keeping his hand upon it while she told.\n\n'I cannot come. Go, say I cannot come; I will not!' and desperately\nimpatient his hand beat upon the door.\n\n'You must,' she said, and her white face and shaking voice went far to\nconvince him. 'I think you must. O Christian, don't you know why they\ncome?'\n\nHe looked at her blankly.\n\n'To ask after Philip.'\n\nHis face burned red, and he stood dumfoundered.\n\n'You know? From my mother?'\n\n'Yes,' she said. 'No,' she said. 'I thought that first, and told her. Oh!\nwhy did she not tell you all when she would not let me confess? Yes, I\nthought that, and O wretch that I was! I thought no blame either. Now\nhate me, and never forgive me.'\n\nHe also said, 'I have nothing to forgive'; and half audibly he groaned,\n'Ah, Christ! is there no forgiveness of sins?'\n\nFootsteps made them turn to see two rounding the linhay; and again,\nfootsteps behind brought two after Rhoda, impatient of delay. None of the\nfour from that moment judged Christian to be innocent, nor Rhoda wholly\nignorant: their looks so bespoke guilt and apprehension.\n\nSome touch of resentment at the intolerant intrusion set Christian's head\nhigh, and his eyes were not to be daunted as he measured each for\nstrength of will and strength of body. He knew them for the pick of\nPhilip's kin; all were of the League.\n\n'Say why you come,' said Christian.\n\n'Bid me stay,' whispered Rhoda, though she saw that her presence hindered\na ready answer; but Christian bade her go, and reluctantly she withdrew.\n\nOut of earshot she went, but no further than to the gate. There she\nleaned, and tried to keep her face averted, but against resolution now\nand then her head would turn to better her heart. Uncloaked, in the cold\nshe shivered, and from apprehension.\n\n'Concerning our kinsman Philip,' began the eldest.\n\nHis colour went and came for witness against him.\n\n'Speak low,' he said, glancing at a near window, 'lest my mother hear,'\nand at that a second score went down against his innocence.\n\n'You put to sea with him; you came back alone. Where is he?'\n\nIn his haste Christian answered to more than was asked.\n\n'Alive he was when I saw him last. Where he now is I know little as you.'\n\nThe youngest put in a word. 'Alive! But was any plank under him? Will you\ntake your oath that he was alive and safe, and unhurt by you?'\n\nAt that red guilt flew over his face, for he could not.\n\nAnother turn of words might give him a chance, but he had no skill to\nplay for it. The imposition of an oath he might not resent with his old\nhigh claim: a promise had been broken, though they knew not, and his head\nsank for shame. That, with his brief pause, sealed conviction.\n\nOne muttered, 'Now I would not believe him though he swore'; but the\nother three frowned silence upon him, the spokesman saying, 'We do\nrequire an oath before we ask further.'\n\nNo protest did he offer to hinder a quick despatch. He uttered the form\nprescribed, though conscience and pride alike took deep wounds of it.\nAfterwards it was told against him how his countenance worked, as for the\nfirst time an oath had been forced upon him.\n\n'Now be speedy,' said Christian, 'for I have little leisure or list to\nbide.'\n\nAt that crass speech something of grim smiling hardly kept to\nconcealment.\n\n'Is Philip alive?'\n\n'Yes,' he said, 'if he be not dead,' an answer that angered them. 'God\nknows'; then he said, 'I have no cause to think him dead.'\n\n'You saw him last alive and like to live?'\n\n'More like to live than I.'\n\n'Where, then, did you leave him?'\n\n'I may not say. I am pledged to silence.'\n\n'How pledged? To whom?'\n\n'To Philip.'\n\n'Ay, we know; but we all are of the League.'\n\n'None were excepted; \"not to a soul,\" he said.'\n\n'He, speaking for the League, meant to not a soul beside.'\n\n'I mean to the League no less. So I think did he.'\n\nA poor satisfaction was in standing to his word against those who\ncompelled him to an oath.\n\n'Crack-brained devil----'\n\n'Lower!' Christian said, glancing anxiously up at the window.\n\n'This is no case for foolery or brag. Out of you we must have the whole\ntruth, lief or loath.'\n\nHis stubborn face said no. To no man on earth could he tell the whole\ntruth, nor, were that possible, would it be believed; less than the\nwhole doomsday truth could scarce make his own outrageous act\ncomprehensible.\n\n'Philip may tell you, but not I,' he said witlessly. And as he spoke and\nlooked at these four, it came upon him that he might not long outlive\nPhilip's telling of the tale, if only by reason of that lurking thing\nuncertainly seen. He clapped his hand upon the hidden cross, as a\nperilous flash told how less cause had set down a record that might not\nbear the light. So close was he ever to the mouth of hell.\n\nLive temper faded from his face, and it settled to the old blank mildness\nthat had been lifting somewhat of late days.\n\n'Is he so mad?'\n\n'No, he shams.'\n\n'Leave fooling, and speak straight in a matter of life and death.'\n\n'Oh! more--more than life and death. For the love of God, make an end,\nand take a final answer. I will tell no more; nor would the most I know\nfurther you to Philip.'\n\nThe comment of a vigorous curse checked him there.\n\n'Hear me out. If you need but to know how a venture went, I can tell you:\nwell. If you have other need of him that does not brook delay, I can but\noffer to serve you to my best, for following and bringing him again;\nwhatever be the risk, I owe that to him and you. Only this day I must\nhave to myself. I must, though I pay for it with the rest of my life.'\n\nThat preposterous offer took away breath. Then an oath yelping high with\nderision above anger brought Christian to entreat for his mother's quiet.\n\n'Let us in here, then,' said one, and reached to the latch behind him.\n\nChristian struck up his arm. 'No!' he said, and barred the way.\n\nInstantly, moved by a prompt suspicion, the four sprang out ready steel\nand swung one way, ringing him in. At that, Christian realised his\ndesperate case. He blanched, and sweat started. 'For life and death!' he\nsaid hoarsely. 'O my God, my God!'\n\nRhoda shot in between, and, voiceless from fear and speed, clung to\nChristian, presuming her weakness to turn offence.\n\n'Cowards!' she panted, 'four against one, and he empty-handed. What--why?\nChristian?'\n\n'You would do well to counsel your madman to give way and let us pass, if\nhe care greatly for the quiet of any there within.'\n\nChristian yielded. He lifted the latch and thrust the door open, standing\naside that they might pass him by; but two linked arm with him, walked\nhim in, and held him a prisoner. He did not offer to resist. Rhoda\npressed after him close; the last to enter closed and bolted the door.\n\nPuzzled silence fell. Not a corner of the bare place could harbour\nsuspicion. Some tools were ranged against the walls; twine and canvas and\ncommon oddments lay there, a small enough show of garden store, and of\nfuel a pile pitifully low. A stool overthrown told of Christian's last\nhasty rising; on a bench lay his cap, half filled with scarlet berries,\nand strung berries were spread beside. Four blank countenances were\nturned upon him, whose looks were sullen and guilty like a criminal's\ntaken in the act. Rhoda, bewildered, owned to her sinking heart that here\nshowed such vagary of his wits as passed her reckoning.\n\n'You were best away, Rhoda.'\n\n'I will not go,' she said, 'except I be thrust out.'\n\nNone urged for that rough kindness now, having gone so far; her presence\nmight even turn to account, for it must lie with the Alien to spare her\ndistress.\n\nThe prisoner took up question.\n\n'The League has charged you to be judges?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'To give sentence?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'To execute it?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\nChristian grew as white as a coward; he went on steadily nevertheless.\n\n'You are charged to do murder.'\n\n'To do justice.'\n\n'Without any proof that Philip is dead.'\n\n'Lack of proof that he is alive comes to the same as the case stands.'\n\nNo lie would now avail of Philip lost overboard. In the stress of clear\nthinking for his life he felt relief that he could not be so tempted to\ndamn his fair cause before Heaven.\n\n'He will return,' he muttered, 'but too late, for me too late.'\n\n'Christian, they dare not,' gasped Rhoda; 'no, you dare not, for Philip\nwill return to confound you. Should he return--too late--then may God\nhave no mercy on your souls.'\n\nChristian said 'Amen' to that.\n\nThe spokesman turned to Rhoda.\n\n'You speak positively: can you bear witness in his favour?'\n\n'I know nothing--nothing.'\n\n'Yet have you shown singular quickness of apprehension.'\n\nShe looked piteously at Christian, galled by remorse.\n\n'Oh me! Must I say?'\n\n'Why not? None here will blame you. I cannot.'\n\nSo Rhoda faltered out how she too had entertained a wicked suspicion.\n\n'What evidence then routed it?'\n\n'His.'\n\n'His evidence?'\n\n'His denial.'\n\nHer sincerity was beyond question; her simplicity commanded respect; no\ningenuity could have spoken better to his credit. Yet all was vain.\n\n'Bare denial may not suffice for us, when furthermore without valid cause\nhe has refused any clear statement to satisfy a reasonable demand, and\nquibbled and defied.'\n\n'Give me a moment's grace,' pleaded Christian, 'to make sure if I can go\nno further.'\n\nHe might take his time; but little he needed to gain conviction for\ndespair; for he saw how inevitably answer would beget question point by\npoint, till, again at bay, having traversed ground bristling with hostile\nindications, he must stand at yet worse disadvantage.\n\nBefore his eyes, one, fingering in mere impatience, took hold of the\nstrung berries; at a rough twitch some scattered. Christian, exasperated,\nplucked for a free hand, and a tightened grip set him struggling for one\ninstant with the natural indignation of young blood at rude constraint.\nSo well dreaded was his strength, that on a misconstruction of his aim,\nevery tool that might serve as a weapon was caught up and thrust hastily\nfrom the window, while more of the rowan danced down. Balked the Alien\nseemed, resisting no longer, and sweating, shaking, choking, with eyes\nmiserably wet with rage. But Rhoda, who had watched his face, turned, and\ngathering all the berries loose and strung, laid them safe from handling.\n\n'God bless you, dear!' he said; and so she knew that she had guessed\nright, and so she could not doubt but his wits had fallen again to their\nold infirmity.\n\nHe had ended patience and grace when a gleam of hope came.\n\n'It must be within your knowledge,' he said, 'who last saw him with me.'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'Then this I may say--he and Philip went together when we parted\ncompany.'\n\n'That too we had thought to be possible.'\n\nChristian recognised an ominous note, and the hostile faces he saw more\ndark and grim.\n\n'Speak out!' he cried; 'what is it you think?' Yet half he knew; yet\nquite he knew. 'Speak out! Do you dare think I have betrayed them?'\n\n'We have little doubt. Traitor, thrice over traitor, the League's account\nwith you is overdue.'\n\nHe laughed out savagely.\n\n'Now, devils that you are you show, that bring a false accusation, since\nwell you know that once only have I been on a venture.'\n\n'Well we know how two ventures before failed--well-planned ventures. Now\nwe know how you have played the fool and the spy together. Two times have\nyou been gone, no man knew where; over a day gone, and not at sea. Will\nyou say now where you went?'\n\nHe despaired, and did not answer, while Rhoda's glance wavered\nconsciously. At last he said:\n\n'Though I myself can make no defence, in due time I cannot fail to be\ncleared--of murder and treason. I cannot wait. This day I want; I must be\nfree on any terms. No terms? But hear! I claim judgment instantly, this\nhour. Men, you dare not give it. Then I claim the judgment of God. I will\nfight it out. Choose your place and pick your man,--nay, any two. What?\nCowards! three, all four together, but forgo your knives or lend me one.'\n\n'Fight you may, but the place shall be here, and the odds against you, as\nyou see.'\n\nThe door was fast, and the six within stood close in the limited space;\nhe was held at disadvantage, and weaponless, against choice men prepared.\nAlso he cared for two women.\n\n'Oh!' he cried, shaken and white with fury, 'I must, I must have one day.\nWith what but my life may I purchase? Is it cheap, think you? As you hope\nfor heaven by mercy, deal with me. Only one day! By this hour to-morrow,\nif I breathe, I surrender. I will swear to it by any form you will. Make\nharder conditions, and I take them. All my life-days after would I engage\nto set this day free. What more can a man offer than his life for lending\nor ending?'\n\nHis face and voice were so dreadful to Rhoda's heart, that she could not\nbrook the limits of reason.\n\n'Mine! Christian, you have mine. You will not refuse; you will let him\ngo, for I will be his surety.'\n\n'This is folly.'\n\n'It is not. Is it not enough? I--life--honour, in pledge for him. O\nChristian, you cannot gainsay, else you dishonour your own purpose.'\n\n'We are plain men who are dealing for justice. An innocent girl cannot be\nsubstitute for a traitor all but proved, whom, moreover, the League needs\nfor a better information.'\n\nStill Rhoda tried protests.\n\n'Girl, are you out of your senses too? dishonest too? Can you state any\ncircumstance to justify this urgency for a day's grace? Failing that,\nwell we can guess what he would do with it. It is somewhat barefaced.'\n\nChristian checked her answering, and owned defeat.\n\n'Give over now,' he said. 'An hour have I wasted fighting over losing\nground. You have gained all along, and I know it. In every way you have\nthe advantage. Say now, what will you do with it?'\n\n'You surrender?'\n\n'No. By your force, not by my will, shall liberty go. Quit words and be\ndoing. No: what then?'\n\n'Consider that the odds are against your taking boat alive were a hint\nout of your foul dealing with the League. Yet if you promise resistance\nwe have no choice but to hale you an open prisoner. Have you a mind to\nface stones?'\n\nRhoda's scared looks drew one to assure her, that were Christian free\nfrom guilt, his cause could not miscarry at their hands, unless by his\nown intemperance; therefore should she persuade him to voluntary\nsubmission. He groaned in miserable despair.\n\n'I yield, but only till these stringent conditions be passed. Dispose\nwith me as you will, and I submit--yes, absolutely--yes; but for a time\nonly. A limited term; for one half-hour? More I will not, and look you\nafter. I cannot surrender my will to be free this day.'\n\nLikely enough it was out of pity for the girl that his offer was taken.\nAgainst suspicion of some reservation he was constrained to swear faith\nunder dictation; also the order of his going was ruled minutely, with\nwarning that the lifting of a hand unallowed would be instantly fatal.\n'Be doing--be doing quickly,' he said, and the bolt was drawn.\n\nChristian turned to stay Rhoda, who came following, and the four men,\nwith fine consideration, passed out first, letting the door swing to on\nthe unhappy pair. Their eyes met, poor souls, with miserable\nconsciousness that a barrier of reserve thwarted solace.\n\n'Keep heart, dear,' he said; and bravely tearless she echoed him.\n\n'But, oh!' she said, 'be patient, and not rash, for the sake of those who\nlove you.'\n\n'O Rhoda, Rhoda! you do not know. I have a work this night. I think--I\nknow it was meant for me. By Heaven, I think. My own sins have risen up\nagainst me now. They thwart. Hell itself striving against me has\nadvantage by them. There must be some way. But I cannot see it. There\nmust be! Oh! I cannot be condemned through turning back on an amended\nhope. So Heaven-sent I blessed it. No way--no way!'\n\nMuttering, he reached over to the rowan and absently fingered it, while\nRhoda urged on him what she knew of reason. He turned on her a musing\nlook.\n\n'Rhoda, will you help me?'\n\n'Oh, tell me to: never ask.'\n\n'Take the rowan, and finish what I was about.'\n\nShe broke down at last, and turned away in such a passion of sobbing as\nowned desertion of hope.\n\n'Rhoda! You desert me, Rhoda!' in so broken a voice he said, that against\nall sense she cried: 'But I will! Yes, yes; trust me, I will!' and could\nnot after retract when she saw his face.\n\n'I am not mad,' he said; 'look at me: I am not.' And with that she knew\nnot how to reconcile evidence.\n\n'Be speedy against my return.'\n\n'Is it possible? How?' she whispered.\n\n'As God wills, I cannot know; but some way will show, must show.'\n\nAgain she entreated against temerity, and for answer he taught her of a\nlonely spot, asking her to carry the threaded rowan there, and to wait\nhis coming. 'If I do not come,' he said, 'I shall be----'\n\n'Not dead!' she breathed.\n\n'Oh, damned and dead,' he said.\n\n'It cannot be. No. Yet, O Christian, should any harm befall you, avenged\nyou shall be. Yes. No law can serve us here efficient against the\ntyranny of the League; but if in all the land high places of justice be,\nthere will I go, and there denounce the practice of such outrage and\nwrong. Those four, they shall not escape from account. For that I will\nlive--ay, even hazard living--I know.'\n\n'You will not,' ordered Christian; 'for I myself freely have served the\nLeague, and have taken payment. And these four mean to deal justly; and I\nhave no right to complain.'\n\nA hint of impatience sounded against the door, and Christian, with a last\nword enjoining secrecy, turned and lifted the latch. A forlorn sob\ncomplained. He caught both her hands in his.\n\n'Dear heart, dear hands, a farewell were misdoubt,' he said, and on brow\nand hands he crossed her. 'A human soul shall bless your faithful doing.'\n\nHe loosed and left her. She saw the door's blank exchange for him; she\nheard the brisk departure of feet; away fled the spurious confidence she\nhad caught in his presence, and desolate and despairing, blind and choked\nwith grief, she cursed her own folly and bewailed his.\n\nWhen she took up her lunatic task the red berries like told beads\nregistered one by one prayer too like imprecation, for sure she was that\nthe strange-named woman stirred at the heart of this coil. In heats of\nexasperation she longed to scatter and crush the rowan; yet the thread\ncrept on steadily through her hands, inch by inch, till that misery was\nover.\n\nThen it pleased her grief to bring out her own best scarf for enfolding.\n'So I further him to her,' she said; 'so I fashion some love-token\nbetween them.' As soft-foot she went for it, outside a fastened door she\nstood to listen. She heard the low mutter of petition, and jealous\nresentment sprang up against a monopoly by the dead of the benefit of\nprayer, so wanted by the living.\n\nAs she stood, a patch of calm sea shone into her eyes through a narrow\nlight; and from the frame, small as a beetle, moved a boat rowing across.\nFive men she counted, and she made out that the second rower was the\nbiggest. So had he entirely surrendered. All hopeless she turned away to\nfulfil her promise.\n\nAt that moment Christian was speaking.\n\n'I take it, the time is now up.'\n\nBy a mile of engirding sea the prospect of escape looked so vain that one\njoined assent with a fleer. Placid as the sea's calm was the Alien's\ncountenance, and he pulled on steadily. The leader from the helm leaned\nforward to regard him fixedly, finding his tranquillity consonant only\nwith imperfect wits.\n\n'You think better of resistance, nevertheless?'\n\n'Truly I do,' he answered. 'I think better of resistance now,' and in his\neyes was no reading of resentment or anxiety.\n\nHis glance turned with his thoughts to distinguish the roof that covered\nhis mother and Rhoda. Dear heart, cried his, do your part and I will\nmine.\n\nRhoda by then was doing after her own thought and liking. Though fasting\nherself, poor child, that on the morrow the board might be the better\nspread, for Christian she was lavish. Wine she took that Giles had not\nlived to drink; of griddle cakes the best she chose, and also of figs\nfrom those she summer-time ago had gathered and dried. Then she wound the\nsilly rowan in brown moss, knotted it up in her scarf, and cloaked\nherself, and went out on her fool's errand.\n\nSome miles to the west, on the edge of waste, stood a landmark of three\ntrees, and near by, off the path, a furze-stack. Thither by devious ways\nof caution came Rhoda on the first wane of daylight, and having done all,\nfaced the drear without heart, crouching into shelter of the furze.\n\nPoorly clad for such a vigil, thin from days of want, fasting, exhausted\nby excitement and grief, she had no strength left to bear bravely any\nfurther trial. Though Christian's desperate emphasis stood out to bar\ndespair, she told herself his coming was impossible, and her spirit\nquailed in utter cowardice as she realised her own outlook. She was\nafraid of the night, and her engagement had taken no limit of time.\nShould the dreaded ice-wind of the season rise, there were peril to life;\nbut her heart died under a worse terror, that increased as waste and tree\nbulked large and shapeless under drawing dark. For was it not the Eve of\nChristmas, when the strict limitations of nature were so relaxed that\nthings inanimate could quit station, and very beasts speak like men, and\nnaked spirits be clothed with form. Her mortal senses were averse. With\ndesperate desire for relief she scanned the large through the longest\nhour of her life.\n\nNight was in the valleys, but on the uplands twilight still, when against\nthe sky a runner came. He, dear saviour.\n\nBut his footsteps made no sound; but he showed too white. Doubt of agony\nthat this was not he in human flesh froze her, till he came and stood,\nand not seeing her close crouched, uttered his heart in a sound dreadful\nto hear.\n\n'Here, here!' cried Rhoda, and had her hands on him before her eyes had\nfairly realised him. He was mostly naked.\n\nCoatless, shirtless, unshod, his breeks and his hair clung damp, showing\nby what way he had come free. She held him, and laughed and sobbed.\n\n'You have it?' he said. 'Give it here--give it.'\n\n'This also--this first. Drink--eat.'\n\n'No; I cannot stay.'\n\n'You shall--you must,' she urged. 'Do you owe me nothing? What, never a\nword?'\n\nHe declined impatience to her better counsel; and when he had got the\nrowan and belted it safe, to the praise of her providence he drank\neagerly and ate.\n\nRhoda spied a dark streak on his shoulder. 'You are hurt--oh!'\n\n'Only skin-deep. Salt water stanched it.'\n\n'And what of them? Christian, what have you done?' she asked with\napprehension.\n\n'Yes; I have a charge for you. Oh, their skins are whole all. Can you\nstep on with me a pace? You will not be afraid?'\n\nShe looked at the wan south-west, and the sable heath, and the stark\ntrees; but she could answer now: 'No,' stoutly and truly, and shiver for\nfear only. He withheld his pace for her, she stretched to a stride for\nhim.\n\n'Well done, I know,' she said, 'but tell me how.'\n\nHe gave a meagre tale, but many a detail she heard later to fill it out.\nIt was easy doing according to Christian, when time and place suited, to\nbeat out a rib of the boat, to stand his ground for a moment while the\nsea accomplished for him, then to drop overboard when blades struck too\nquick and close. The boat went down, he said, near three miles from\nshore.\n\n'O Christian! are any drowned?'\n\n'No, no. I had done my best by them. You know how the Tortoises lie. We\nwere well within a furlong of them. I got there first, and was doffed and\nready when they came, waiting to offer them fair. Rhoda, you will carry\nword of this that some fellows may go to take them off.'\n\n'Not I,' she said vindictively; 'let them wear the night there for due\nquittance.'\n\n'No. They might be perished. And 'twas I counselled them not to attempt\nthe shore, and said I could send word of their plight; and I meant it\nhonestly, though the fools grew so mad at that, that they took to\nstoning.'\n\nWhen, later, Rhoda heard the tale more fully, it showed elements of\nincongruous comedy; later still, she heard it grown into monstrous\nproportions, when the name of the Tortoises was put aside, and the place\nwas known as the Devil's Rocks thenceforward. The Alien's feats that day,\nhis mighty stroke staving the boat, his swimming of marvellous speed, his\nconfidence and temerity, were not passed on to his credit: adverse was\nthe interpretation, and he never lived it down.\n\n'Tell me, Christian, where you will be, and how we are to get news of you\ntill you dare return.'\n\n'Dare return! If I be not dead, that will I to-morrow.'\n\nShe cried out against such insanity.\n\n'You must not. It is wicked with a foolhardy parade to torment us--your\nmother.'\n\n'Have no fear, dear. If I come again, it will be with joy, bearing my\nsheaves.'\n\nShe could put an interpretation on his words that loaded her heart.\n\n'Rhoda, dear sister, I owe you much this day, and now I will ask for one\nthing more.'\n\nShe said 'Yes,' though foreboding ordeal. It was a minute before he\nspoke.\n\n'Will you pray for us?'\n\nPoor heart, how could she? Anything but that.\n\n'What worth are the prayers of such an one as I? Desire rather your\nmother's prayers.'\n\n'She for another cause will be praying the night through. Will you do as\nmuch for us?'\n\nHe stopped her, for she did not speak, and held her by the shoulders,\ntrying to see her face to get answered.\n\n'O Rhoda, will you not pray for us?'\n\nShe made her answer singular. 'I will pray for thee'; but his greater\nwant overcame her into ending: 'and--for Diadyomene.'\n\nHe stood stock-still and gripped her hard when that name came, but he\nasked nothing. 'I will, I will,' she whispered; and then he kissed her\nbrow and said: 'God bless you.' She flung her arms round his neck without\nreserve; her cheek lay against his bare breast, and because she felt a\ncross there she dared to turn her lips and kiss. He gathered her to close\nembrace, so that swept from her feet she lay in his arms rapt for one\nprecious instant from all the world.\n\nWhen he had set her on her feet, when he had blessed her many times, she\nclung to him still, heaving great sobs, till he had to pluck away her\nhands.\n\n'Yes, go,' she said. 'I will pray for you both,' and down she knelt\nstraightway.\n\n'God be with you.'\n\n'God be with you.'\n\nHe passed from her into the darkness, away from sorrows she knew to some\nunknown. Rhoda, flung prostrate, wept bitterly, rending her heart for the\ngetting of very prayer for that unknown woman, her bane.\n\nToo little thought Christian, though he loved her well, of her who so\nfaithfully went on his bidding, trudging wearily on to make good his\nword, kneeling afterwards through the long hours in prayer that was\nmartyrdom. If the value of prayer lie in the cost, hers that night\ngreatly should avail.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\nLate knocking came importunate to the House Monitory. One went to the\nwicket and looked out. Her light, convulsed, for an instant abetted a\ndelusion that he who stood knocking outside was Christ Himself with the\nsigns of His Passion: unclothed was the man she saw, bloodstained, both\nhead and hands. Then she noted fair hair, and had to believe that this\nhaggard man was one with the brave-faced boy of earliest summer. He clung\nto the ledge for support; so spent was he that a word was hard to\ncompass.\n\n'For the love of God,' he said, 'you who are watchers to-night pray for a\nhuman soul in sore need.'\n\nShe would vouch for that; she would summon one with authority to vouch\nfor more.\n\nWhen she carried word within: ''Tis the same,' said one, 'who twice has\nleft fish at the gate, who slept once at the feet of St. Margaret.'\n\nTo the wicket went the head monitress, and, moved to compassion by the\nsight of his great distress, she gave him good assurance that not the\nfive watchers only, but one and all, should watch and pray for him that\nnight, and she asked his name for the ordering of prayer.\n\n'Not mine!' he said. 'I ask your prayers for another whose need is mine.\nPray for her by the name Diadyomene.'\n\nHe unfastened the cross from his neck and gave it.\n\n'This is a pledge,' he said, 'I would lay out of my weak keeping for St.\nMary, St. Margaret, and St. Faith to hold for me, lest to-night I should\ndesire I had it, to be rid of it finally according to promise.'\n\nHe had not made himself intelligible; clearer utterance was beyond him.\n\n'No matter!' he said. 'Take it--keep it--till I come again.'\n\nHe knotted the empty string again to his neck, and, commended to God,\nwent his way.\n\nNow when these two, little later, asked of each other, 'What was the\nstrange name he gave?' neither could remember it. But they said 'God\nknows,' and prayed for that nameless soul.\n\nSomehow Christian got down the cliffs to the shore, as somehow he had\ncome all the way. Little wonder head and hands showed bloody: every\nmember was bruised and torn, for he had stumbled and gone headlong a\nscore of times in his desperate speed over craggy tracks, where daylight\ngoings needed to be wary. Scarcely could hoofed creatures have come\nwhole-foot, and he, though of hardy unshod practice, brought from that\nway not an inch sound under tread. An uncertain moon had favoured him at\nworst passes, else had he fallen to certain destruction.\n\nHe stood at the sea's edge and paused to get breath and courage. To his\nshame, he was deficient in fortitude: the salt of the wet shingle bit his\nfeet so cruelly, that he shrank at the prospect of intensified pain\nthrough all the innumerable wounds he bore. He saw exposed a pitiful,\nunstable wretch, with a body drained of strength and nerve, and a spirit\nservile to base instances. In desperate spite he plunged and swam.\n\nHe had ever waited for an outgoing tide; he had ever taken a daylight\ntide; now for his sins he had night and the flood against him. But still\nthe moon blessed him. Delusions beset him that pains of his body came\nfrom the very teeth of sea-creatures, too fierce and many for him to\ncope with, crowding, dragging, gnawing hard at his life. For ease a\npassive moment and a little painful, airless sobbing would suffice:\nsoonest, best. And had the pale moon darkened, he had gone under as at a\nsupreme command, to such depravity and destitution were come his vital\ninstincts. But, her light holding him alive, by hard degrees he won his\nway, till, for the last time, he stood upon the Isle Sinister.\n\nBut when he had made his way through the narrow gorge, and trod sand, the\nmoon was dark, and night fell upon his heart. He dared not call, and\nneither sight nor sound granted him assurance of Diadyomene's presence.\nWanting her footprints to tell she had passed in, he feared lest he\nshould be barring her very entrance. He fell down and prayed, being\nwithout resource.\n\nAnd Lois was praying, and Rhoda with bitter tears, and the House Monitory\nwith the ring of its bells. Very faint was the moan of the sea in their\nears.\n\nSlowly, slowly, the blessed moon stepped out, and lifted him up and\ndelivered to his sight the track of light feet set from seaward--one\ntrack only. In haste, by the wavering light of the moon, he laid out the\nthreaded rowan and weighted one end against the rock. The whole length\nextended came short of the further wall by about two feet.\n\nHe rallied from the momentary shock, resolving that he himself could\nstand in the gap to bar passage.\n\nNo form nor motion could he discern within his range as in slow scrutiny\nhis eyes sought her from side to side. He lighted on despair; the\nentrance to the cavern had escaped his providence.\n\nIn the dark he went to the low arch, and felt about the sand inch by inch\nfor the dint of her feet. Naught could he find. Yet what did it profit\nhim that she had not yet passed? To drop prone on the sand was his poor\nconclusion, abandoned to despair.\n\nHe was but cast back on the morning's portion, then of fair sufficiency,\nbut now oh! meagre, meagre, compared to the ripe hope that had come of\nnourishment strange and opportune as manna from heaven. Then had he\nincurred to no purpose expense of blood and sweat and anguish of body and\nmind, nay, brought to the crucial hour such an appalling deficiency.\n\nTo contest a human soul with powers of darkness required perfect\nsteadfastness of will and faith; lost, lost, with mere self-control lost\nin a useless barter that left him now a clod of effete manhood, with just\nlife enough for groaning pain. Before conflict was he vanquished.\nDiadyomene need but come with a word of anger or derision to break him\ninto childish sobbings.\n\nYet driven to last extremity, such man's strength as remained to him\nmight prevail in sanctified violence for the winning of a soul. He would\nhold her by the feet; his hands were bloody, but he would hold her by the\nfeet; should he have to cling round her, he would not hurt; meek and\ngentle could he be, though fury should set her to such savage handling as\na woman's strength may compass.\n\nTo win a human soul? O wretched piece of clay, not that! The mere thought\nof contact with Diadyomene, close contact with her, cool, soft, naked\nthere in the cold dark, swept the bright delirium of sea-magic over him\nagain, stung his blood to a burning fever, set him writhing as pain had\nnever. At the fiery blast, in this nadir hour the place of pure love was\nassaulted and taken by base lust; his desire was most strong, not for\nthe winning of a human soul, but for the wicked winning of a human body,\nay, maugre her will--any way.\n\nYet, oh for the fair way of her favour! Had she not allowed him very\ngracious hints?--'lay your hand upon my breast, set your lips to mine.'\nThrice she had said it--once when a touch on her hand had brought magical\nvision, once at her kindest, once at her cruelest. Though her command was\nagainst him, though her anger might not be overpast, a hope kindled that\ndread of the dark hour of her fate might urge her to his arms, there to\nfind such gladness and consolation as might leave no place for horror to\ncome into possession.\n\n'And give up your soul.' Thrice too had that been said. He was loath to\ngive it remembrance, but it entered, whenever faint bells tolled on his\near it entered.\n\nVery strangely, while good and evil fought equal-handed for his will, he\nperceived that his body had risen to hands and knees, and was going\nforward very fitly like a beast. All round the cold dark began to burn. A\nboulder lay athwart his course, and then very strangely he was aware that\nhis arms had fastened round it with convulsive strength, and brow and\nbreast were wounded against it. He could not take possession to end this\ndisgraceful treason; all that was left to him was to rescue integrity at\nleast by undoing the knot at his neck.\n\nThen prevailed the blessed guile of Lois. The trivial exaction brought\nher son face to face with her, with her sorrows, with her prayers, and\nthe mere communion of love set him praying frantically, and so brought\nhim to himself again.\n\nWe beseech, we beseech, we beseech: Lord God for my unbaptized! Dear\nChrist for Christian's Diadyomene! Blessed Trinity and all Saints for a\nnameless soul in sore need!\n\nVile, vile indeed, were he to desert a holy alliance.\n\nThere where the token had lain on his breast cross-edges of the boulder\nwere wounding, and strange human nature turning ravenous to any gross\nsubstitution of fires, seized with wild energy on the ecstasy of pain,\ntill the rock cut to the bone, while the whole boulder seemed to stir. In\nnowise might the cross be cast aside: it was kept against his will in\nholy ward; it was printed indelibly in his flesh.\n\nThe very boulder had stirred. Then hope rose up as a tyrant, for he had\nfallen spent again. Spirit was weak and flesh was weak, and it were task\nhard out of measure to heave that boulder from its bed and set it up to\nblock the low entrance; and useless, when at a sight or a sound\nDiadyomene were away fleet foot to the sea.\n\nAnd yet he felt about, set feet and shoulder for an arch of strength, and\nstrained with great hefts; and again the mass seemed to stir. He dropped\ndown, trenched painfully round, and tried again till his sinews cracked.\nNor in vain: with a reluctant sob its bed of sand gave up the stubborn\nrock, and as it rolled endlong a devil that had urged excuse went from\nChristian. Foot after foot he fought that dreadful weight along the sand,\nright up to the cleft, right across the cleft he forced it. Not yet had\nhe done enough; for he could feel that as the boulder lay, there was\nspace for a slim body to press across and win the cavern. To better the\nbarrier by a few poor inches, this way and that he wrung his wearied body\nand broke flesh; and to no purpose. 'Except my bones break, I will.' He\ngrappled strenuously; a little give responded. He set his feet closer in,\nand lifted again mightily, and the boulder shifted, poised onward to\nsettle.\n\nWho struck? Death.\n\nNerveless, he swayed with the rock, on a motion its own weight\nconsummated, agape, transfixed by the wonder of living still.\n\nFresh, horrible pain seized him by foot and ankle, casting him down to\ntear up the sand, to bite the sand, lest in agony he should go shrieking\nlike a woman.\n\nHe writhed round to strike in the dark at the senseless mass, in the\nmadness of terror and pain deeming the boulder itself had moved with\nmalignant intelligence, not merely according to the preponderate laws\nthat lift the world. To him the presence of infernal powers was manifest\nin this agent. In foul warfare they held him fast by the heel, and mocked\nthe impotent spirit within the bonds of flesh. The dark grew pregnant\nwith evil beings as he struggled to swooning.\n\nPray for us, faithful hearts, pray! In the name of the Father, the Son,\nand the Holy Ghost, for her service! Then he prevailed, and out of the\nteeth of hell he wrenched his heel.\n\nBroken, crippled, strengthless, Christian crawled over the sand to the\nspot where he would die. Indistinguishable in the dark was the furrow he\nleft stained till the tide should come: long before daylight broke the\ntide would come up to smooth and whiten it. He knew he was dying, and,\ntouching the ended rowan, rendered thanks that it was to be there. All\nwas nearly over, pain and a foolish, arrogant hope on which he had staked\nhis life: presently, when he was dead, Diadyomene would come, to overstep\nhis body, eluding there the toils. He misliked the thought that her feet\nmight go red from treading him, and he stretched about weakly for briny\nhollows along the rock to cleanse the hot, slow oozing that chilled and\nstiffened into long stripes.\n\nWhy should he be gasping still, as breathless as after his hardest race,\nas after his mightiest heft? He required breath to help endurance of\nthirst and exorbitant pain; air could he gasp in, deep and free, and yet\nhe wanted for more.\n\nWhy he should be dying, and how, Christian did not know. Life's centre\nhad been stricken mortally quicker than a lightning-flash, too subtly for\nthe brain to register any pain, so unmistakably he wondered only he was\nyet alive. From breath to breath he awaited another touch and a final,\nyet nothing lacked for vital order save air, air, more air. At short,\nmerciful intervals he drifted out of the range of any pain.\n\nOn this his third death he did not so very greatly shrink from passing\nout of the body to stand before the face of his Maker. He could not take\nup any meaning for prayer. He was discarded from service; perfect justice\nhad tried him, judged him, and condemned him as unfit. It was bitter for\nhim; but review of his finishing span of life, its sin, failure,\nimpotence, brought him to acquiescence. 'Thine is the kingdom, and the\npower, and the glory' was all he had of prayer.\n\nThe apprehension of each human principle was straitened, by darkness\nabout him, by pain in strong possession, by recognition of death closing\nin. As visitants to his heart from some far-distant sphere came Rhoda,\nLois, Diadyomene; they vanished away; he could not keep them close--not\neven Diadyomene. 'Dear love, my love!'\n\nThrough the dark she came.\n\nHe rose to his knees, aware of a moving glimmer of grey, nearing, near.\nAt her swift, beautiful pace she made for the sea. Suddenly she stood. He\nheard the catch of her breath; swiftly the dim oval of her face was\nturned to him; then away. She swayed back a step; she swayed forward;\nhung a moment at poise upright; reeled aside, and fled back into the\ndark.\n\nThen Christian found he had yet strong faculty for life. He had retained\nsmall certainty that she had not long passed him by; speculation had\nfallen faint. Lo! she was here, controlled, and he not dead. He could\npray, for her and for a little life, passionately.\n\nA low, bitter cry quivered through the dark to his heart. Diadyomene had\nfled for a way of escape, and found it barred. Soft rapids were her feet;\nshe came speeding full to leap past. In vain; with a cry she flung up her\narms, revulsed irresistibly, swerved, and stood stone-still. She moaned\nout long, agonised sighs; she seemed to turn away in pride, ignoring him;\nshe seemed to face him again, not defiant. He saw her hands outstretched\nin appeal. 'What have you done?' she said; 'what have you done?' and then\nthe woful complaint was changed to wilder: 'What have I done? what have\nI done?'\n\nHe did not dare to speak, nor had he the breath. He was weeping for her.\nBut she, not seeing, was stirred to wrath and fear by a silence so cruel.\nTo her height she rose above the gasping, crouched shape, and her voice\nrang hard and clear.\n\n'Stand away. Once you trespassed, and I forgave you fully; twice, and I\nspared you; this third time--get you gone quickly, and find yourself some\neasy death before it be out of reach.'\n\nStill he did not answer. Her fear outdid her anger, and she stooped her\npride.\n\n'Only be kind and true, and let me go,' she implored, and knelt low as\nhe. 'I let you take my secret, and you turn it against me treacherously.\nYou plan a shameful snare, you, you, whom I counted true as the sun. To\nyou, a bold, graceless stranger, I granted life at the first; to you I\ngave the liberty of my dearest haunt. Be just, and leave me free in my\nown. Have pity, and let me go. Woe and horror are coming upon me to take\nme, awake and astray from the comfort of the sea.' She moaned and sighed\npiteously.\n\nHis tears fell like rain for grief of his doings, for bitter grief that\nhe might not comfort her.\n\nBecause of a base alloy that had altered sacred love he had to fear. He\nturned away his head, panting and shaking, for pain and thirst made\nalmost unendurable a temptation to stretch out his hand to hers, by the\nmagic of her touch to lose himself till death in a blissful swoon.\n\nHer wail had in it the note of a deserted child and of a desolate woman.\n\n'I am crying to you for pity and help, and you turn away; I, who in the\nsea am regnant. But late you cried to me when no mercy and pardon were\ndue, and I let you live. And if then I judged you unheard and wrongly,\nand if I condemned a breach of faith over harshly, here kneeling I pray\nyou to forgive--I, who never bid vainly, never ask vainly, of any living\ncreature but of you.'\n\nChristian only was weeping; Diadyomene shed no tear, though her voice\nquivered piteously.\n\n'Ah, my sea, my sea! Hark how it moans to me, and cannot reach me! My\nbirds fail me, nestling afar--that you considered when you came by\nnight. Undo, undo your cruel work, and I will reproach you never.'\n\nHis silence appalled her. 'Why should you do this?' she cried. 'What\nwould you have of me? A ransom? Name it. The wealth of the sea is mine to\ngive; the magic of the sea is mine. To all seas, to all sea-creatures,\nyou shall bear a charmed life henceforward, only let me go.'\n\nHe sobbed, 'But I die, I die!' but so brokenly that the words failed at\nher ears.\n\n'Hear me,' she said; 'I make no reservation. Ask what you will, and\nnothing, nothing I can grant will I refuse--only quickly let me go.'\n\nShe was crouched before him, with her face downward and hidden, as she\nmoaned, and moaned surrender. Presently she half lifted, and her voice\nwas at a lovely break between grief and gladness.\n\n'Fool, dear ignorant fool, Diadyomenos, are you blind? You have come to\nme often; have I ever looked unglad? Have I wearied of you soon? Have I\nfailed you? Could you read into that no favour from me, Diadyomene, who\nhave the sea to range? Can you wrong so my grace to you in the past as to\nplan an extortion? Ah, foolish, needless, empty wrong! Your eyes have\nbeen fair to me when they said what your tongue would not. Speak now fair\nwords, since I cannot read your eyes. Dear hands, reach out for mine,\ntake them and draw me out of the snare, and with gladness and shame own\nit needless, as with gladness and pride will I.'\n\nSo vile a wretch she took him to be! and the bitterness was that he might\nnot disclaim. For a moment he had fallen to that baseness; it might be\nthat only because life was going out of him so fast was he past such\npurpose now. A stupid 'No, no,' was all he could bring out.\n\nShe sprang up at a bound, driven to fury. She longed to strike with mere\nwoman strength, yet she dared not a contact, lest hers be the\ndisadvantage. With a shriek she fled back into the dark, and he heard the\ndreadful wailing cries wheeling away. Desperately he prayed for himself\nand for her; for his pain and an agony of pity were almost more than he\ncould bear.\n\nSuddenly she came upon him and stood close. Her tone was changed.\n\n'At last,' she said, 'miserable creature, you shall know the truth. You\nlove me. I know it well; I have known it long. And with all my\nstrength--I--hate you. Not for this night's treachery and insolence\nonly; from the first I hated you; and hatred has grown since more\nbitter-strong, till your one life and body seemed all too little to stay\nit. Ah! the love I read in your eyes has been sweet sustenance. So I\nwaited and waited only for this: for love of me to take deep hold of your\nheart, to be dearer than life, before I plucked it up by the roots; and\nto laugh in your face as I did it, knowing it worse than any death. Oh!\nit should have been by daylight. I would like to see your face and your\neyes now, and watch your great body writhe--I think it does! Why, laugh I\nmust.\n\n'Can you fathom my hate by its doings? You stood here first, glad, proud,\nstrong in your youth; but a few short weeks, and I had turned all to\nruin. Yes, I--I--only was your bane, though I but watched, and laughed,\nand whispered beneath my waters, and let you be for the handling of your\nfellows. Truly my hate has worked subtly and well, and even beyond\ndevice; it has reached beyond you: an old man treads the quay no more,\nand a girl comes down to it grown pale and heavy-eyed, and a woman ageing\nand greyer every time. Think and know! You never shall see them again;\nfor a brief moment you check and defy me, but the entrance of the tide\nshall bring you your death.\n\n'Now, I the while will plan the worst death I may. You think you have\nfaced that once already? Fool! from to-morrow's dawn till sunset I will\nteach you better. The foulest creature of the deep shall take you again\nand hold you helpless--but that is nothing: for swarms shall come up from\nthe sea, and from twilight to twilight they shall eat you alive. They\nshall gnaw the flesh from your limbs; they shall pierce to the bone; they\nshall drill you through and rummage your entrails. And with them shall\nenter the brine to drench you with anguish. And I, beside you, with my\nfingers in your hair, will watch all day, and have a care to lift your\nhead above the tide; and I will flick off the sea-lice and the crays from\nyour face and your eyes, to leave them whole and clear and legible to my\nhate at the last. And at the very last I will lay my face down against\nyours, and out of very pure hate will kiss you once--will kiss you more\nthan once, and will not tire because you will so quicken with loathing.\nEven in the death agony I mean you to know my fingers in your hair. Ha!\nAgonistes.\n\n'And now you wish you had died on that moonlit, warm night long ago: and\nme it gladdens to think I did not then cut you off from the life to\nfollow after, more bitter than many quick deaths. And you wish I had\nfinished you outright in the late storm, that so you might have died\nblissfully ignorant of the whole truth: and I spared you only that you\nshould not escape a better torture that I had contrived.\n\n'Ah! it has been a long delight to fool you, to play my game with\nflawless skill. As I choose a wear of pearls, so chose I graces of love\nfor adornment. Am I not perfect now? What have I said of hatred and love?\nNo, no, all that is false. Because you scorn the sea-life so dear to me,\nI try to keep hatred; but it may not abide when you stand before me and I\nlook in your eyes--oh! slay it, slay it quite with the touch of your\nlips. My love!' her voice fell softly: 'My love, my love, my love, my\nlove!' She was chasing the word along all the ranges of derision.\n\nShe stood no more than a pace from him, a flexile figure that poised and\nswung, to provoke the wild beast in him to spring. Christian never\nstirred nor spoke.\n\n'Would the moon but shine! I mean to watch you when you die, but I think\na better sight your face would be now than then. How well it pleases me\nyour eyes are grey! Can grey eyes serve as well to show hate as love? Ay,\nI shall laugh at that: to see in them hate, hate like my own; but\nimpotent hate, not like mine. It hardly has dawned yet, I guess, but it\nwill; and presently be so strong that the dearest joy left would be to\nhave your hand on my throat to finish my life. Do you think I fear? I\ndare you, defy you! Ha! Agonistes.'\n\nHe did not come hurling upon her; he did not by word or sign acknowledge\nher taunts.\n\n'Why, the night of my dread goes blithely as never before. There is no\nbane left in it. I have found an antidote.'\n\nShe forced a laugh, but it went wild, strangled, and fell broken. Again\nshe fled back into the dark, and, like a prisoned bird, circled frantic\nfor the sea that she could not reach. Far from Christian, she halted and\npanted low: 'Not yet have I failed, dear sea. Though love may not\nprevail, nor hate, yet shall my song.'\n\nThough the incoming tide sounded near, echo still carried the tolling of\nthe bells. For the knell of that passing soul fittest names they bore out\nof all the Communion of Saints. St. Mary! bitter dregs had his life to\ndrain; St. Margaret! his pearl of the sea was lost in deep waters; St.\nFaith! utter darkness was about, and desperate striving could find no\nlight of Heaven; his life, his love, his God forsook, rejected, disowned\nhim.\n\nLoss or fear could not touch him any more, for not one hope, one joy\nremained. From the cruel havoc, calm, passionless wonder distilled, and\nnew proportions rose as his past came before him to be measured anew: so\ntolerable looked the worst of inflictions, a passing wrong, forgivable,\nforgettable; so sorry looked the best endurance, a wretched contortion,\ndefacing, deforming. Against Diadyomene not one throb of passion stirred:\nshe had broken his heart outright, so that it had not true faculty of\nlife for any new growth. Strangely, to his wonder, under this her doing,\nthe old derangement passed away, and the way of loving-kindness to all\nmen showed clear. Too late! Never in this life could he meet his fellows\nwith good, quiet blood, and frank eyes, and wholesome laughter, unafraid,\nsimply acknowledging all records, free, candid, scrutable.\n\nHe began even before death to resolve to impersonality; he surveyed the\nperverse obstinacy of vitality that would not quit its old habitation,\nthough fierce pain was in possession; and he could wonder at the\nwretched body heaving, tortured by a double thirst for air, for water,\nwhen so short a time would render it mere quiet earth, soon to unshape.\n\nOut of the darkness rang her voice, noting beauty wordless, and sunlit\nseas glanced through the nights: the magic of the sea was upon him.\n\nBrief sweetness! the bright sound faltered, broke. O blackness and pain!\nThe far, slow knell struck in.\n\nAgain, up welled the buoyant voice, poised and floated exquisitely,\nmounted and shrilled frantically sweet, caught up the failing senses from\nthe death sweats, and launched them on a magic flood of emotion, through\nracing sprays, and winds vivid and strong of the brine.\n\nGone, ah! gone; for a wailing cry came, and then thwart silence suddenly,\nand flung him back to the dominion of black anguish.\n\nAnd again and again, high-noted, above the tramp of the nearing tide,\nthat perfect voice flew to delicious melody; and promise of words\nstrengthened the enchantment; and yet, and yet, a cry and a silence\nstabbed and bled the spell she would fashion.\n\nPerfect achievement came. Up rose a measure transcending in rapture all\nforgone, and flawless, unfaltering, consummate, leaped on and on, rhythm\nby rhythm, clear-syllabled for conquest.\n\n'Where silver shallows hold back the sea, Under the bend of the great\nland's knee, And the gleaming gulls go nestled and free.\n\nWhere the tide runs down in the round of the bay, There in the rings\nwhere the mermen play, On ribs and shallows their footprints lay.\n\nIn liquid speech they laughed and sung, Under the rocks, till the rout\noutswung, Called from the echoing cave its tongue.\n\nThey were away with the glimmering seas: Off with the twilight, off with\nthe breeze, Wave-weeds fell from their glancing knees;\n\nRobes laid by, which the hollowed spars Held and hid, while the wet\nsand-bars Failed of the sunlight and filled with stars.\n\nSea-mists rose for a dream, but when Mists wore faint in the sunlight,\nthen Lo, the sea with its dancing men.\n\nSpume and swirl spun under their feet; Sparkle and flash, for the runners\nwere fleet; Over them climbed the day to its heat.\n\nAnd the day drew a draught of the tide-winds strong, As a singer the\nbreath to be rendered song, As a child the life that will last so long.'\n\nChristian had fallen prone.\n\nWhile she sang, so potent was the magic, he lusted to live. Sentient\nonly to the desires she kindled, out of account lay the dead heart, and\nthe broken strength, and the body so shattered within and without, that\nwonder was it yet could hold a man's life. Pain was excluded by a great\nsensual joy of living.\n\nHer song manned the mirage of her delight, and straightway he was\npassionate for life. Never before had she acknowledged the sea-fellowship\nto occasion the ravenous ache of jealousy. She sang of the mermen, and\nthey rose before him visionary at the spell, with vigorous hair and\nfrolic eyes, very men, lithe and sinewy for the chase and capture of\ntheir feminine fairest in amorous play. Life was one fire burning for the\nhot war of nature's males, as through the riot, whirling with the song,\nhe eyed challenge and promise of a splendid wrestle with strong, hard\nlimbs; and the liquid, exquisite voice was a call to him to speed in and\nwin, nor suffer the wanton sea-brood to prevail.\n\nIt was then that his body fell, face forward, never to rise again.\n\nOn sang Diadyomene, not knowing that a power stronger than her magic,\nstronger than his will, kept him from her feet. On she sang, herself\npossessed, uttering not with her own will more than magic. What alien\nelement underlay the spell she would deliver? what lurking revelation to\nbe dreaded, to be desired, hid beneath? Her voice was caught back again,\nand yet again, to repeat the finish:\n\n'As a singer the breath to be rendered song, As a child the life that\nwill last so long-- As a child----'\n\nThen bell notes fell in a chime. She lifted her head; they rang, she\nhearkened, motionless, wordless.\n\nIt was midnight, and joy for the birth of Christ thrilled the world. No\nspell could hold. Christian must resume the throes of death.\n\nThe cold and the tide were merciful to shorten. His limbs were stone-cold\nand dead already, past motion, past pain. Against his side the foremost\nlap of the tide told. It licked and bit along his body, flanks, breast,\nthroat, touched his cheek. Astray against his face he felt the thread of\nrowan. It kissed along cheek, along brow, and swung wide and away.\n\n'Christ, Christ, ah! Christ.'\n\nHe turned his head and drank of the brine, and drank and drank to slake\nthe rage of thirst. The drawing of breath made hindrance: not for long.\nThe last draughts he took were somewhat sharp and painful, but they\nquenched his thirst. He was entirely satisfied.\n\n'We beseech, we beseech, we beseech: Lord God for my unbaptized! Dear\nChrist for Christian's Diadyomene! Blessed Trinity and all Saints for a\nnameless soul in sore need!'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\nThrough all creation went the divine breath of renunciation. Joy for the\nbirth of Christ rang on; and motionless, wordless, Diadyomene hearkened,\nreleased from the magic of the sea.\n\nDawned a vision remote, but strangely distinct, of a small life\ncomprehending two dear figures--one most dear; and thereto a small,\nbeautiful pain responded. A tale flashed across and across, gaining\ncoherence, giving it: the tale of a loved and lost child, long years ago\nlost to the sea; loved still. Perfect grew the interweaving; the\nsubstance of the two became one.\n\nJoy for the birth of Christ was abroad, thrilling all planes of existence\nwith the divine breath of renunciation. In the soul of Diadyomene, waked\nfrom its long trance, love was alive; a finite, individual love, chief\ncentred on one dearest to remembrance. The beautiful pain grew large, and\nthe cold heart that the sea-life had filled and satisfied was yearning\nfor share in another life long forgone. A small divine instinct,\nfollowing ignorantly in the wake of that great celestial love that\nhundreds of years ago stooped to the sorrow of life, urged her to\nrenounce the ample strengths and joys of the sea, and to satisfy a\npiteous want, were it by repression of energies, by eschewing full\nflavours of sense, by the draining of her young life. The soul of true\nwomanhood in this child for the cherishing of her mother's waxed mature.\n\nMotionless, wordless, she hearkened while separate bells cadenced; when\nagain they fell to their wonted unison, the sea-bred woman knew that a\nsoul was hers, and that it claimed dominion.\n\n'We beseech, we beseech, we beseech: Lord God for my unbaptized! Dear\nChrist for Christian's Diadyomene! Blessed Trinity and all Saints for a\nnameless soul in sore need!'\n\nDiadyomene flung out vacant arms, and moaned a dear name, for years\nunuttered. Across the long interval of sea-life her spirit leaned to own\nthe filial heart of childhood. Clear to her as yesterday came back that\nbroken fragment of earlier life,--bright, partial, inadequate, quaintly\nminute, as impression had gone into a happy, foolish infant. Not a\nmemory had traversed the ground since to blur a detail, though now the\nadult faculties could apprehend distortion, the beautiful vagarious\ndistortion that can live in a brain over toddling feet.\n\nRecent song caught colour; reflected it.\n\n'As a woman the breath to be rendered song, As a child the life that will\nlast so long.'\n\nFrom deep roots under dense forgetfulness, the song had drawn up truth to\nblossom in perfect form. Before the eager wonder of the child, the sea\nhad revealed its secret of men shapes, who had beckoned, and laughed, and\ntempted her with promise and play, till she stretched out her arms to\ntheir glee, till she ran in their circles, till, breathless, she thirsted\nand drank of their offering, and so passed.\n\nSo tempered was her cold sea body that no ice-wind ever started a shiver.\nNow one came, for the mother might not recognise her child, for the child\nmight be grown unworthy of her mother's love.\n\nThere was one to succour: Christian. What had she done? There was one to\nblast her, too foul for any love: Christian.\n\nHer hideous doings rushed back upon her with conviction of guilt; an old\nsense revived; she shrank and cowered, bowed to the ground by an agony of\nshame.\n\nLo! the moon bared her face and looked.\n\nDiadyomene rose to her knees; with a steady will she rose to her feet and\nwent to suffer her full penalties.\n\nHer portion of shame was dreadful to bear; her bold avowal of love for\nChristian, her atrocious wording of hate intervolved to double disgrace.\nThen neither passion had been entirely feigned; now she knew that love\nswayed her alone, turning her to a worship of the man. No bitterer\npenance could she conceive than with confession to him to strip heart and\nsoul naked as her body; this only could extend it: should his large\ngenerosity keep under his loathing and contempt, and order him to deal\ngently for her help according to pity. No way could he remit her dues.\n\nAs she went to meet his face, she lifted her gaze up the slant moonbeams,\nlooking piteous, despairing appeal for darkness to come back and cover\nher. Wisps of cloud made only a poor pretence. She met the tide\nunhindered, and stood; she looked, no man was there; she wailed\n'Christian, Christian,' and no voice answered. With relief for the\nlengthened shadows below the rocks, she made for the very spot where he\nhad knelt; it was far overpassed by the tide. Ankle deep she trod: knee\ndeep. She sets her foot upon a man's hand, leaps, stumbles on his body to\na fall: Christian dead lies under her embrace.\n\nSupreme justice had measured her due.\n\nThe placid clay had returned to an old allegiance, and weltered with the\ntide according to the joint ordering of earth and moon. The living\ncreature would not acknowledge that right dominion, most desperately\nwould withstand it. She stooped her shoulder beneath the low head, and\nheaved it up above the tide: the air did but insist that it lay\ndead-still. With all her slender feminine strength put out for speed, she\ngirthed, she held, she upbore the inert weight afloat for moonlighted\nshallows. There her knee up-staying, her frantic hands prevailing over\nthe prone figure, the dead face fell revealed. No hope could appeal\nagainst that witness.\n\nA strange grey had replaced the ruddy tan of life, darker than the usual\npallor of the dead. That, and the slack jaw, and the fixed, half-shut\neyes, a new and terrible aspect gave to the head, dear and sacred above\nall on earth to the stricken creature beholding.\n\nFor a long moment appalled she gazed, knowing yet but one fathom of her\nmisery: just her loss, her mere great loss past repair. Then moaning\nfeebly, her arms went round again to draw it close. Her smooth palms\ngliding over the body told of flawed surfaces, bidding her eyes leave the\nface to read new scores: on the breast a deep rent, on the shoulder\nanother, and further more and more wherever a hand went. Along one arm\nshe stretched hers, and lifted it up to the light of the moon. Beside the\ntense, slender limb, gleaming white, that other showed massive, inert,\ngrey-hued, with darker breaks. The hand hanging heavy was a dark horror\nto see.\n\nShadows invaded, for the moon was foundering on the rocks.\n\nAcross her shoulders she drew the heavy burden, strove to rise upright to\nbear it, tottered, fell, and then dragged on with elbows and knees as the\nwaves resigned to her the full load. Heavy knees furrowed the sand beside\nhers, heavy arms trailed; the awful, cold face drooped and swayed from\nher shoulder as she moved; now and again it touched her cheek.\n\nWithdrawn from the fatal sea, what gain had she? The last spark of life\nwas long extinct, and she knew it; yet a folly very human set her\nseeking Christian's self in the shell that was left, scanning it,\nhandling it, calling upon deaf ears, drawing the wet head against her\nbreast. Cold, cold was her breast; the sea-magic had bred out all heat\nfrom her heart.\n\nShe pressed the dripping hair; she stooped and kissed her dead lover on\nthe lips. It was then her iniquity struck home with merciless rigour\ncomplete. 'I will lay my face down against yours, and out of very pure\nhate will kiss you once. Even in the death-agony I mean you to know my\nfingers in your hair.'\n\nThe wretched soul writhed as the hideous words rose up against her to\ndamn. They were alive with every tone and laugh; they would live stinging\nand eating out her heart until she died.\n\nAnd after death?\n\n'Christian! Christian!'\n\nThe agonised cry now was no effort to waken deaf ears; it called after\nChristian himself, gone past reach of her remorse into unknown night.\nGone deliberately, to be finally quit of so abhorred a creature? In mute\nwitness the quiet body lay to vindicate Christian: too broken it was, too\ndarkly grey for any death self-willed.\n\nThen she could look upon the blank face no more, for the moon passed\nquite away. Then the stretching tide came lapping and fawning, soon to\nsway the dead weight she held. She was not worthy to look upon clay so\nsacred, she was not worthy to touch it, she who in wanton moods had\ninclined to a splendid male, nor recognised in him a nobler version of\nlove. No spark of profane passion could remain after she had kissed the\ncold, dead face.\n\nThe dreadful cry of a soul's despair broke the vacant air with the name\nof Christian. Many times his name, and no other word. The desolation of\ngreat agony was hers: no creature of the sea could bring her any comfort\nnow; no creature under heaven; for the one on earth to whom her child's\nheart yearned was the one on earth she least dared face with her awful\nload of guilt.\n\nNothing could atone for what she had done: life could never give scope,\nnor death. Were this that she held Christian himself, able to see and\nhear, her passionate remorse could conceive no dearer impossibility than\nat his feet to fall, with supplication, with absolute confession\ndelivering the love and worship of her heart before him: to be spurned by\nhis inevitable hate. The inexorable indifference of the dead was a\njuster, a more terrible, recompense.\n\nYet a more terrible conception woke from a growing discernment of\nChristian's utter abstraction from the mortal shape, that so long had\nrepresented him to her, and so well. This his body had ceased from\nsuffering and endurance, yet the very self of Christian might bear with\nhim unassuaged the wounds and aches her malice had compassed. Hate would\nheal, would sear, at least; but oh! if he had not quit him of a tyrannous\nlove, then bruised and bleeding he carried with him still a living pain\nof her infliction. She dared not confidently reckon her vileness against\nthe capacity of his extravagant love. She dared not. Her full punishment\nreached home to her at last.\n\nHer ignorant mortal senses strained to pierce the impenetrable mystery\nthat had wrapt Christian to an infinite remoteness. For his relief, not\nfor her own, would she present to him her agonies of love and remorse:\nhim stanched, averse: him bleeding, tender; to gratify, to satisfy, to\nplenish any want.\n\nTempests of despair raged through that undisciplined soul. Every hope was\ncut off, every joy was extinct. The sweet attraction of loving service,\nthe pride and glory of despotic rule, were not for her, an exile from the\none, and from the other abdicating. In all the world there was no place\nfor her but this, between sea and land, with a hold on a dead illusion of\nChristian, with vain, frantic crying after his reality.\n\nShe did not know, whelmed in gulfs of sin and grief and despair, she did\nnot know how divine a dawn brooded over the waste. From the long-lost\npast clear echoes swept of childish prayers, to blend as an undercurrent\nwith that message her lover had so tried to deliver, that she had\nrepelled as hideous and grotesque. She used no conscious memory, nor\nfollowed any coherent thought, but, consonant with the first instinct of\nher fresh awakened soul, that longing for her mother's sake to make\nrenunciation, consonant with Christian's finished achievement--his\nstriving, suffering, enduring even death for her unworthy sake--was this\nincoherent impression of a divinity vastly, vaguely suffering in\nexemplary extreme out of great compassion and love to mankind, thence\naccrediting suffering as the divinest force that can move the world. Her\nalso it had vanquished.\n\nThe tide had turned; it pressed her gently to resume her old way to the\ndeeps. The drift of another tide took her.\n\nOut of her futile striving for direct communion with Christian grew a\nsense that the sole possibility left to her was to yield body and soul to\nhis will in strict possession, and to follow that guidance. In her great\nmisery and helpless desolation a how and a whither with quailing beset\nher going. Lo! the first step was sure, because it entailed a\nheartrending renunciation.\n\nAh! desperately dear was this, Christian's body, to her mortal\napprehension of him. She held it very closely with an access of love and\nworship such as appertains to vacant shrines. O woe to part from it, to\nlay it aside and leave it to final obliteration!\n\nSuddenly she wept. This near, definite distress, so humanly common, broke\nup the fountain of her tears so many a year sealed. To a creature long of\nthe cold sea breeding tears were scalding to the heart.\n\nMoaning, weeping, yet a little while she failed to forgo that embrace of\npure worship and untainted love. Worthy of reverence that piece of clay\nwas, for its loyal alliance with a high soul; wonderful as a noble and\ntrue representative; very sacred from the record of devotion scored\ndeep, so fatally deep.\n\nShe wept, she wept as though weeping could cease from her never. Could\nthe deep draught of sea-magic in tears be distilled, void of it should\nshe be long before daybreak come.\n\nThe shallowing run of the tide drove her to resign the dead weight that\nexceeded her strength to uphold. Weeping, heartwrung, she bent her to\nreplace her own will by Christian's! So first she gave away the dead body\nto final peace, and laid it down for ever in its destined sepulchre, and\nthereafter went alone into unfamiliar darkness to grope blind among\nstrange worlds for the ways of Christian's countenance.\n\nWe beseech, we beseech, we beseech: Lord God for my unbaptized! Dear\nChrist for Christian's Diadyomene! Blessed Trinity and all Saints for a\nnameless soul in sore need!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\n\nSome four days after Rhoda heard what more befell before that night was\nout. The chief monitress told her.\n\n'We were watching all,' she said, 'and praying according to that promise\nI had made for a nameless soul in sore need, whose name, Diadyomene, you\nhave restored to us. The dull roar of the sea came in swells of sound,\nfilled as often with an illusion of voices; angry voices they sounded\nthen. This I say that you may understand how a cry like a human creature\nin distress could pass unregarded at first. Again and again it came more\ndistinctly, till we were startled into suspicion that a feeble knocking\nwas close by at the lych door of our chapel. One went at my bidding to\nlook out. Back she fled, with terror white as death: \"God and His saints\nguard,\" she said, \"that without is not of flesh and blood!\"\n\n'I and another took her light and went to the door, and before unclosing\nI asked in the name of God who was there. No answer came but a sound of\nbitter sobbing. Then I looked out, and verily doubted also if what I\nlooked on were indeed flesh and blood. Upon the threshold crouched a\nslender woman-shape, naked. I flung wide the door and touched her: she\nwas cold as marble, colder, I dreaded, than any creature of life could\nbe. Then did she raise her head to show the fairest and saddest face I\nhave ever beheld. Her eyes were full of tears fast falling, and oh! the\nwild, hunted, despairing look they had. \"Christian, Christian!\" she\nwailed. None knew of any such name.\n\n'We lifted her up and led her in and covered her hastily. Her dark hair\nwas all drenched; recent wet had not dried from her skin. A few flakes of\nsnow had been drifting down; I noticed some that lay on her shoulders:\nthey did not melt there. Cold as a marble statue she was, and as white,\nand of as beautiful a form as any that man has fashioned, and but for her\nsobbing and that one cry of \"Christian,\" one could think as dumb.\n\n'I would have led her to comfort and warmth and food, but she would not:\nfrom touch and question she shrank bewildered and scared; as though the\ncloak we had wrapped about her were irksome, she slipped it off once and\nagain, unashamed of nakedness. Still her tears fell like rain, and heavy\nsobs shook her. But as the great bells struck overhead, she caught in\nsudden breath and held it while the air throbbed, and thereafter broke\nout with her cry: \"Christian, Christian!\"\n\n'I bade all kneel and pray, that if this were indeed one of God's\ncreatures, wisdom might be given us to deal with her for her welfare. In\ngreat perplexity I prayed, and some fear. I think it was that utter\ncoldness of a living body that appalled me most.\n\n'One spoke from her knees. \"The name of Christ is in her utterance; no\ncreature outcast from salvation could frame any such word.\" Then I said:\n\"I will take upon me to offer her instant baptism. That may be her need\nthat she cannot perfectly utter.\" She did not seem to hear one word when\nI spoke to her; I could see her mind was all too unknit for\ncomprehension; she only cried out as before. But when I turned towards\nthe altar and took her by the hand, she followed me unresisting.\n\n'So, right before the altar we brought her, and made her kneel among us\nall. All our font was a stoup of holy water held at hand. Then I prayed\naloud as God gave me the grace. She ceased to weep; she caught my hand in\nhers; I know she heard. In the name of the blessed Trinity I baptized\nher, but signed no cross; too suddenly she rose upright; she flung up her\narms with one deep sigh. I caught a dead body from falling.\n\n'God knows what she was.'\n\nThe speaker fell to prayer. Presently Rhoda said: 'How did you name her?'\n\n'I named her Margaret.'\n\nRhoda whispered: 'She was Diadyomene.'\n\nThen she covered her face with her hands, lest the grave eyes should read\nover deep.\n\n'What else?' she said, 'tell all.'\n\n'When the grace of God had prevailed over our doubt and dismay, we did\nnot dread to consider the dead countenance. It was fairer even than in\nlife; serene as any sleeping child; death looked then like a singular\nfavour.\n\n'We closed her eyes and folded her hands, and laid her out before the\naltar, and resumed prayer for the one nameless and another Margaret.\n\n'And no more we knew of whence she came than this: that by daybreak a\npowder of drying brine frosted her dark hair, and the hollows of her ears\nwere white with salt.'\n\n'So,' said Rhoda, 'might come one cast ashore from a wreck.'\n\n'We took measures, indeed, to know if that could be; but out of all the\nsearch we sent about not a sign nor a clue came. If she were indeed that\none Diadyomene, we may only look to know more when the young man\nChristian shall come again.'\n\nRhoda turned her face to the wall when she answered very low: 'He will\nnot come again. Well I know he will never come again.'\n\nThen her breathing shortened convulsively, and past restraint her grief\nbroke out into terrible weeping.\n\nThe dark-robed monitress knelt in prayer beside her. That pious heart was\nwise and loving, and saw that no human aid could comfort this lorn girl\nfallen upon her care. When Rhoda was spent and still, she spoke:\n\n'My child, if, indeed, we can no more pray God to keep that brave young\nlife from sin and death, yet may we pray that his soul may win to peace\nand rest under the mercy of heaven. Nay, there is no need that you too\nshould rise for kneeling. Lie down, lie down, for your body is over\nspent. Kneel before God in spirit.'\n\nThere was long silence, and both prayed, till Rhoda faltered to the\nbetrayal of her unregenerate heart: 'Was she so very fair indeed? Where\nis she laid? Take me--oh, let me once look upon her face.'\n\n'It may not be. She lies a day buried, there without among our own\ndead--although--God only knows what she was.'\n\nRhoda again would rise.\n\n'Yet take me there. Night-time? Ah yes, night, night that will never\npass.'\n\nAt daybreak she stood, alone at her desire, beside a new-made grave, and\nknew that the body of Diadyomene lay beneath, and knew hardly less\nsurely, that somewhere beneath the sea she overlooked the body of\nChristian lay. Nearest the sea was the grave on the windblown, barren\ncliff. No flower could bloom there ever, only close dun turf grew. Below\nstretched the broken, unquiet sea, fretted with rock and surf, deep\nchanting of the wind and moon. One white sea-bird was wheeling and\npitching restlessly to and fro.\n\nShe turned her eyes to the land far east for the thought of Lois. Over\nthere a winter dawn flushes into rose, kindles bright and brighter, and a\nruddy burnish takes the edges of flat cloud. Lo! the sun, and the grey\nsea has flecks of red gold and the sea-bird gleams. She cannot face it.\n\nRhoda knelt down by the grave to pray. Presently she was lying face\ndownward along the turf, and she whispered to the one lying face upward\nbelow.\n\n'Ah! Diadyomene, ah! Margaret. God help me truly to forgive you for what\nyou have done.\n\n'I have tried. Because he asked it, I have torn out my heart praying for\nyou.\n\n'You fair thing! you were fairer than I, but you did not love him so well\nas I.\n\n'Ah! ah! would it were I who lay down there under the quiet shelter of\nthe turf; would it were you who lived, able to set up his honour and make\nhis name fair before all men!\n\n'Ah! ah! a dark rebuke the mystery of your life has brought; and the\nmystery of your death eats it in.\n\n'Can you bear to be so silent, so silent, nor deliver a little word?\n\n'When you rise, Diadyomene, when the dead from the sea rise, speak loud,\nspeak very loud, for all to hear.\n\n'He loved you! He loved you!'\n\nThe sod above the face of Diadyomene was steeped with the piercing tears\nof Rhoda. 'He loved you!' came many times as she sobbed.\n\nBlind with tears, she rose, she turned from the grave; blind with tears,\nshe stood overlooking the sea; sun and shine made all a glimmering haze\nto her. She turned from those desirable spaces for burial to stumble her\nblind way back to the needs of the living.\n\nIt was late, after sunset, that Rhoda, faint and weary, dragged into\nsight of the light of home. In the darkness a voice named her, struck her\nstill. 'Philip's voice!'\n\nGroping for her in the dark, he touched her arm. Energy she had to strike\noff his hand and start away, but it failed when she stumbled and fell\nheavily; for then Philip without repulse helped her to her feet, and as\nshe staggered a little, stunned, would have her rest a moment, and found\nthe bank, and stripped off his coat for her seating. She said, 'No, no,'\nbut she yielded.\n\n'You thought me dead?' he asked.\n\nShe sat dumb and stupid, worn out in body and mind.\n\n'Do you hold _me_ to blame?'\n\nStill she did not speak.\n\n'Rhoda, O Rhoda, I cannot bear this! Has that devil Christian taught\nyou?'\n\nRhoda rose up with an indignant cry. Then she steadied her voice and\nspoke.\n\n'The name of Christian I love, honour, reverence, above all names on\nearth. You are not worthy even to utter it. Betake you, with your lies,\nyour slanders, your suspicions, to others ready to suspect and slander\nand lie--not to me, who till I die can trust him utterly.'\n\nShe turned and went. Philip stood.\n\n'Is he dead?' he said to himself. 'He is dead. He must be dead.'\n\nAwe and compassion alone possessed him. To his credit be it said, not one\nselfish consideration had a place then. Quick wits told him that Rhoda\nhad inadvertently implied more than she would. He overtook her hastily.\n\n'Hear me! I will not offend. I will not utter a word against him.'\n\nHe spoke very gently, very humbly, because of his great compassion; and\ntruly, Christian dead, it were not so hard to forgo rancour. But Rhoda\nwent on.\n\n'You must hear what I come to tell you before you reach home. Do you\nthink I have been watching and praying for your return these hours, only\nto gird at Christian? For his mother's sake I came, and to warn you----'\n\nShe stopped. 'What is it? What is it? Say quick.'\n\n'Nothing that you fear--nothing I can name. Hear me out!\n\n'Last night I came back, and told, in part, what had befallen me; and\nheard, in part, what had befallen Christian. To-day, one thrust in upon\nhis mother, open-mouthed, with ugly hints. She came to me straight and\nasked for the whole truth. Rhoda, I swear I said nothing but bare truth,\nmere plain, unvarnished fact, without one extravagant word; but her face\nwent grey and stony as she heard--oh! grey and stony it went; and when I\nasked her to forgive me--I did, Rhoda, though what wrong had I done?--she\nanswered with her speech gone suddenly imperfect.'\n\nRhoda pressed forward, then stopped again--\n\n'What did you tell her? I must know that.'\n\nPhilip hesitated: 'Then against Christian I must speak in substance,\nhowever I choose my words.'\n\n'Go on--go on!'\n\nSo Philip told, as justly and truly as he could, all he might.\n\n'Was this,' put in Rhoda, 'off the Isle Sinister?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\nShe heard all the tale: of Christian's sullen mood; of the dark something\nattending below, that he knew, that he watched; of his unfinished attempt\nat murder.\n\n'That we knew,' she said.\n\nTold in the dark by one who had lived through them, nearly died through\nthem, whose voice yet acknowledged the terror of them,--circumstances\nwere these of no vague indication to Rhoda. The reality of that dark\nimplication stirred her hair, chilled her blood, loosened her joints; yet\nher faith in Christian did not fall.\n\nBut no word had she to say to refute the dreadful accusation; no word for\nPhilip; no word for an adverse world. And what word for his mother? Her\nheart died within her.\n\nThe most signal evidence sufficient for her own white trust was a kiss, a\nclose embrace, hard upon the naming of Diadyomene. She had no shame to\nwithhold it; but too likely, under his mother's eye, discount would offer\nwere maiden blood quick to her face when she urged her tale.\n\nShe knew that an ominous hum was against Christian, because he had\nstruck, and swum, and escaped as no other man could; she guessed how the\nroar went now because of Philip's evidence. How inconsiderable the wrong\nof it all was, outdone if one injurious doubt his mother's heart\nentertain.\n\nTo hatred and to love an equal disregard death opposed. No menace could\ndisturb, no need could disturb the absolute repose Christian had entered.\nShe envied his heart its quiet in an unknown grave.\n\n'Be a little kind, Rhoda; be only just; say I was not to blame.'\n\nShe could not heed.\n\n'Why do you hate me so? For your sake I freely forgive Christian all he\nhas done; for your sake I would have been his friend, his brother, in\nspite of all. O Rhoda, what can I do?'\n\n'Let be,' she said, 'for you can undo nothing now. If I saw you\nkneeling--no, not before me--but contrite, praying: \"God be merciful to\nme, for by thought and word and deed I have sinned against the noblest,\nthe worthiest,\" then, then only, far from hate, I think I could almost\nlove.'\n\nNo indignation was aflame with the words; the weary voice was so sad and\nso hopeless as to assure Philip she spoke of one dead.\n\n'All I can do now is to pray God to keep me from cursing you and the\nworld for your working of a cruel wrong that can never be ended.' Her\nvoice pitched up on a strain. 'Oh, leave me, leave me, lest I have not\ngrace enough to bear with you!'\n\nPhilip, daring no more, stood and heard the hasty, uneven steps further\nand die. His eyes were full of tears; his heart ached with love and pity\nfor Rhoda in her sorrow and desolation, that he could do nothing to\nrelieve--nothing, because her infatuation so extravagantly required.\n\nRhoda braced her heart for its work, reached to the latch, and stood face\nto face with Lois. The trial began with the meeting of their eyes; Rhoda\nstood it bravely, yielding no ground.\n\n'Is he dead?' muttered Lois.\n\n'None can tell us.' She faltered, and began to tremble, for the eyes of\nLois were dreadful to bear; dreadful too was her voice, hoarse and\nimperfect.\n\n'Is he worse than dead?'\n\n'No! Never--never think it.'\n\nLois forbore awhile with wonderful stoicism. She set Rhoda in her own\nchair; the turf-covered embers she broke into a blaze to be prodigal of\nwarmth; there was skilly waiting hot; there was water. She drew off\nRhoda's shoes, and bathed her feet, swollen and sore; she enforced food.\n\nThough she would not yet ask further, the sight of her face, grey and\nstony indeed, the touch of her hands, trembling over much, were\nimperative to Rhoda's heart, demanding what final truth she could give.\n\n'Child, if you need sleep, I can bear to wait.'\n\n'I could not,' said Rhoda. 'No.'\n\nShe looked up into the tearless, sleepless eyes; she clasped the poor\nshaking hands; and her heart rose in worship of the virtues of that\nstern, patient soul.\n\nAs the tale began they were face to face; but before long Rhoda had\nslipped from her seat, to speak with her head against his mother's knees.\n\n'I will tell you all now. I must, for I think I am no longer bound to\nsilence, and, indeed, I could not bear it longer--I alone.'\n\n'And you promised, if I would let you go unquestioned away.'\n\n'I did, thinking I went to fathom a mystery. Ah, no! so deep and dark I\nfind it to be, the wit of man, I think, will never sound it. But your\nfaith and love can wing above it. Mine have--and yours, oh!--can, will,\nmust.'\n\n'Ah, Christian! Child, where is my Christian? His face would tell me\nbriefly all I most would know.'\n\n'You have listened to an ugly tale. I know--I know--I have seen Philip.\nYou must not consider it yet, till you have heard all. I own it not out\nof accord with the rest, that reason just shudders and fails at; but\nthrough all the dark of this unfathomable mystery my eyes can discern the\npassing of our Christian white and blameless.'\n\n'Your eyes!' moaned Lois.\n\nRhoda understood. She hid her face and could not speak. In her heart she\ncried out against this punishment as more than she deserved, and more\nthan she could bear. No word that she could utter, no protest, no\nremorse, could cover a wrongful thing she had said for Lois to recall. So\nsmall the sin had looked then; so great now. She had spoken fairly of\ndeadly sin just once, and now Lois could not rely on her for any right\nestimate, nor abide by her ways of regard.\n\n'Ah, Christ!' she whispered in Christian's words, 'is there no\nforgiveness of sins?'\n\nLois heard that, and it struck her to the heart.\n\nRhoda took up her burden again.\n\n'Christian loved one Diadyomene. What she was I dare not think: she was\nshaped like a woman, very beautiful. Dead she is now; I have seen her new\ngrave. God have mercy on her soul, if any soul she have.\n\n'I have known this for long, for some months.'\n\n'He told--you!'\n\n'No--yes. I heard her name from him only in the ravings of fever. He\nnever thought I knew, till the very last: then I named her once; then he\nkissed me; then he went.'\n\nShe turned back to the earliest evidence, telling in detail of\nChristian's mad course with her; then of his ravings that remained in her\nmemory painfully distinct; she kept back nothing. Later she came to\nfaltering for a moment till Lois urged:\n\n'And he asked you to be his wife?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'And because of this knowledge you refused him?'\n\n'Yes. And he kissed me for joy of that nay-saying. On the very morrow he\nwent--do you remember? It was to her, I knew it.'\n\n'O Rhoda, you might have saved him, and you did not!'\n\nRhoda raised her head and looked her wonder, for Christian's sake, with\nresentment.\n\n'God smote one,' she said, 'whose hand presumed to steady His ark.'\n\n'O child, have you nothing to show to clear him?'\n\n'Wait, wait! There is much yet to tell.'\n\nThen she sped on the last day with its load for record, and, scrupulously\nexact, gave words, tones, looks: his first going and return; the coming\nof Philip's kinsmen; that strange vagary of the rowan berries that he had\nwon her to a bet. Lois had come upon a garbled version of Christian's\nescape; Rhoda gave her his own, brief and direct.\n\n'Was it Christian--man alive!--that came to you?'\n\n'It was. It was. He ate and drank.'\n\nOf their last meeting and parting she told, without reserve, unashamed,\neven to her kissing the Cross on his breast.\n\nWas ever maiden heart so candid of its passion for a man, and he alive?\nToo single-hearted was Rhoda to know how much of the truth exhaled from\nher words. Without real perception Lois drew it in; she grew very still;\neven her hands were still. Verily it had got to this: that to hear her\ndearest were dead, merely dead, could be the only better tale to come.\n\n'Then,' said Rhoda, 'the morrow came and closed, and I would not believe\nhe could have kept his promise to be dead; and a day and a day followed;\nand I dared tell you nothing, seeing I might not tell you all. Then I\nthought that in such extremity for your sake I did right to discover all\nI could of his secret; at least I would know if she, Diadyomene, were one\nvowed as I guessed in the House Monitory.\n\n'Now I know, though I would not own it then, that deep in my heart was a\nterrible dread that if my guess were good, no death, but a guilty\ntransaction had taken our Christian from us. Ah! how could I? after, for\nhis asking, I had prayed for her.\n\n'Now, though the truth lies still remote, beyond any guess of mine;\nthough I heard of a thing--God only knows how she came by her life or her\ndeath--lacking evidence, ay, or against evidence, we yet owe him trust in\nthe dark, never to doubt of his living worthily--if--he be not--dead\nworthily. Ah, ah! which I cannot tell you.\n\n'I went to the House Monitory and knocked. So stupid and weak I was, for\nlonger and harder than I looked for had the way been, and my dread had\ngrown so very great, that when the wicket opened I had no word to say,\nand just stared at the face that showed, looking to read an answer there\nwithout ever a question. I got no more sense than to say: \"Of your\ncharity pray for one Diadyomene.\"\n\n'I saw startled recognition of the name. Like a coward, a fool, in sudden\nterror of further knowledge, I loosed the sill and turned to run in\nescape from it. I fell into blackness. Afterwards I was told I had\nfainted.\n\n'They had me in before I came to myself. Ah! kind souls they were. A\nmonitress knelt at either side, and one held my head. When memory came\nback, I looked from one to the other, and dared not ask for what must\ncome. There was whispering apart that scared me. Then one came to me. \"My\nchild,\" she said, \"we will pray without question if you will; yet if you\nmay, tell us who is this Diadyomene?\" I thought my senses had not come\nback to me. They would have let me be, but I would not have it then. \"Who\nis she?\" I said; \"I do not know, I came to you to ask.\" \"We do not know.\"\nBewildered, I turned to the one who had opened to me. \"But you know; I\nsaw it in your face when I named her.\" \"The name I knew, nothing more;\nand that I had heard but once, and my memory had let it escape.\" \"Where\nhad you heard it? Who knows?\" I said. \"On Christmas Eve a man came, a\nyoung man, fair-haired.\" \"Christian,\" I said, \"that was Christian.\" At\nthat three faces started into an eager cluster. \"Christian!\" they said,\n\"was his name Christian?\" Then they told me that after night-fall he had\ncome and named Diadyomene, and that before daybreak a woman, naked and\nvery beautiful, had come wailing an only word, \"Christian.\" But because\nof the hour of his coming I said no, it could not be he, for I had seen\nhim too shortly before. And indeed it seemed to me past belief that any\nman could have come that way by night so speedily. So they gave detail:\nhis hair was fair; his eyes grey; he was of great stature; he was\nunclothed, bleeding freshly, and, yes, they thought, gashed along the\nshoulder. \"But here is a sure token,\" and with that they showed me that\ncross he had worn. \"This,\" they said, \"he unloosed from his neck.\"'\n\nNever a word more Lois heard of that tale, though for near a minute\nRhoda carried it forward. Then looking up, she saw a face like a mask,\nwith features strained and eyes fixed, and sprang up in terror, vainly to\nstrive at winning from the stricken senses token of the life they locked.\n\nWas she guilty of this?\n\nNever did she know. For the few days that sad life held on till it\nreached its term never a word came: not one fiducial word through the\nnaming of Christian to exonerate Rhoda.\n\nSo Lois, too, had the comfort of death, and Rhoda only was left, through\nlong life to go unenlightened, and still to go dauntless of the dark.\n\n\n\n\nEPILOGUE\n\n\nTell us how an altered estimate grew after the passing of Christian, to\nend his reproach.\n\nBut his name came to be a byword of disgrace, his story a dark, grotesque\nlegend among records of infamy.\n\nTell us how Rhoda lived to be happy.\n\nBut the pain and shame of his stigma her heart could never lay aside,\nthough long years gave to patience and fortitude a likeness to serenity\nand strength. Where Christian had lived would she still abide all her\ndays; and the poor reward of her constancy was in a tribute of silence\nconcerning him that came to respect her presence.\n\nTell us how Philip ripened to iniquity and was cut off.\n\nBut a tiny germ of compunction, lurking somewhere in that barren\nconscience, quickened and grew under Rhoda's shadow, till, spite of the\nevidence of his own senses, spite of reason, spite of public judgment, he\nentertained a strange doubt, and to his world and its ridicule\nacknowledged it. Long years wore out Rhoda's suspicion of his sincerity;\nlong years raised him in her esteem in exact proportion as he sank in his\nown.\n\nTell us how Rhoda never stooped to mate with one less worthy than her\nfirst love.\n\nBut a day came when the House Monitory gave her way to a grave with a\nlittle son against her breast; and she stood there to look out over the\nsea that hid the bones of Christian, and thanked her God for appointing\nher in His world a place as helpmeet for a weak soul, who by paths of\nhumility sought after right worship. Then she wept.\n\nTell us in some figure of words how the soul of Christian entered for\nreward into the light of God's countenance.\n\nAt rest his body lay, and over it flowed the tides.\n\nTell us in some figure of words how the soul of Diadyomene, wan and\nshivering, found an unaltered love, with full comprehension and great\ncompassion, her shelter in the light of God's countenance.\n\nAt rest her body lay, and over it sang the winds.\n\nTell us in some figure of words how Lois beheld these two hand in hand,\nand recognised the wonderful ways of God and His mercy in the light of\nHis countenance.\n\nAt rest her body lay, and over it grasses grew.\n\nWe need no words to tell us that God did wipe away all tears from their\neyes.\n\nSurely, surely; for quietly in the grave the elements resumed their\natoms.\n\n\n\n\nPrinted by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty at the Edinburgh\nUniversity Press\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTranscriber's Notes: On equal number occurrences of same word with and\nwithout hyphens (seagull:sea-gull; piecemeal:piece-meal;\nwellnigh:well-nigh) opted to leave both as printed.\n\n\n\n\n\n<pre id=\"pg-footer\">","title":"The Unknown Sea","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":61621}