ld hear his huge limbs
shaking. "Ye haven't come back, mates, ye haven't come back. And the
great gale comin' up, the great gale comin'."

As the words died away, a gust of wind caught the belfry and tore at its
rough-hewn and weather-worn stones.

"Let us go down," said Sir Graham, turning to feel his way into the
church.

"Come, Skipper," said Uniacke, "come with us."

He laid hold of the seaman's mighty arm and led him down the stairs. He
said nothing. On a sudden all the life and hope had died out of him.
When they gained the grey churchyard and could see his face again in the
pale and stormy light, it looked shrunken, peaked and childish, and the
curious elevation of madness was replaced by the uncertainty and
weakness of idiocy. He shifted on his feet and would not meet the
pitiful glances of the two men. Uniacke touched him on the shoulder.

"Come to the Vicarage, Skipper," he said kindly. "Come in and warm
yourself by the fire and have some food. It's so cold to-night."

But the seaman suddenly broke away and stumbled off among the
gravestones, whimpering foolishly like a dog that cannot fight grief
with thought.

"The sea--ah, the hatefulness of the sea!" said the painter, "will it
ever have to answer for its crimes before God?"

Uniacke and his guest sat at supper that night, and all the windows of
the Vicarage rattled in the storm. The great guns of the wind roared in
the sky. The great guns of the surf roared on the island beaches. And
the two men were very silent at first. Sir Graham ate little. He had no
appetite, for he seemed to hear continually in the noises of the
elements the shrill whimpering of a dog. Surely it came from the graves
outside, from those stone breasts of the dead.

"I can't eat to-night," he said presently. "Do you think that man is
lingering about the church still?"

They got up from the table and went over to the fire. The painter lit a
pipe.

"I hope not," Uniacke said, "but it is useless attempting to govern him.
He is harmless, but he must be left alone. He cannot endure being
watched or followed."

"I wish we hadn't gone to the church. I can't get over our cruelty."

"It was inadvertent."

"Cruelty so often is, Uniacke. But we ought to look forward and foresee
consequences. I feel that most especially to-night. Remorse is the wage
of inadvertence."

As he spoke, he looked gloomily into the fire. The young clergyman felt
oddly certain that the great man had mor