odox anaesthetic of the confessional, these
peoples have been obliged to take to the sea as a means of preventing
their consciences from harrying them. Driven forth across the waves by
the clamorous importunity of the voice within, they, of very necessity,
acquire a certain skill in the management of boats, a skill which sooner
or later leads to the burdensome possession of a navy and so to maritime
importance. It is interesting to see how this curious law works out in
quite modern times.

The Italian navy is now considerable, but it has only become so since
the people were driven to the sea as a consequence of the anti-clerical
feeling which led them to desert the confessional. It is quite possible
that the Portuguese, having in their new Republic developed a strong
antipathy to sacraments and so laid up for themselves a future of
spiritual disquiet, may see their ancient maritime glories revived, and
in seeking relief beyond the mouth of the Tagus from the gnawings of
their consciences, may give birth to some reincarnation of Vasco da Gama
or Prince Henry, the Navigator.

"I don't think," said Priscilla, looking round her searchingly, "that
he's anywhere in this bay. How's your ankle?"

"It's quite comfortable," said Frank.

"I asked," said Priscilla, "because in order to get out of the bay I
shall have to jibe, and that means that you've got to hop across the
centreboard case."

Frank had not the least idea of what happens when a small boat jibes. He
intended to ask for information, but was not given any opportunity.
The boom, which had hitherto behaved with dignity and self-possession,
suddenly swung across the boat with such swiftness that he had no time
to duck his head to avoid it. His straw hat, struck on the brim, was
swept over the side of the boat. He found himself thrown down against
the gunwale, while a quantity of cold water poured over his legs. He
grasped the centreboard case, the nearest stable thing at hand, and
pulled himself up again into the middle of the boat. Priscilla, a good
deal tangled in a writhing rope, was struggling past the tiller to the
windward side.

"What's happened?" asked Frank.

"Jibed all standing," said Priscilla. "I didn't mean to, of course. I
must have been sailing her by the lee. But it's all right. We didn't
ship more than a bucketful. I say, I'm rather sorry about your hat; but
that's a rotten kind of hat in a boat anyway. Would you mind getting up
to windward? I'v