ding to the mighty
working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself._"

A pause, and he closes the book. Two of the men quietly slacken the
ropes which hold the body in position, another pulls off the flag, and
the dark mass on the planks plunges downward into the oily sea.
Another pause, while I picture it rushing "down to the dark, to the
utter dark, where the blind white sea-snakes are," and the Chief
motions furtively with his fingers.

In a few minutes we are under way.

* * * * *

It is eight bells, midnight, once more. The sky to the southward is a
jet-black mass of clouds, and the windsail is yawing in a strong, cool
breeze. Away to the westward the moon still throws her glory over the
face of the waters and I go below, thinking of the night coming, when
no man shall work.

And so ends our Christmas Day.

XXI

It is Sunday, and I lie under the awning by the engine-room door,
lazily reading "Faust." There is a speck on the sky-line--the
mail boat, bringing a letter from my friend. I look round at the
translucent opal of the bay, the glittering white of the surf on the
reef, the downward swoop on an albatross, and I listen to the dull
roar of the breakers, to the solemn tang-tang of the bell-buoy on the
bar, and the complaisant "_ah-ha-a-a_" of some argumentative penguin.
Even the drab-coloured African hills in the distance, and the
corrugated Catholic church (shipped in sections) with the sun blazing
on its windows, are beautiful to me to-day, for I am not of those who
think religion is ugly because it is corrugated, or that hills are
repulsive because they are not in the guide-book. I am at peace, and
so are the rest. My friend the Mate is fishing, but that, of course,
is trite; the Mate is always fishing. I fancy the cod nudge each other
and wink when they see his old face looking down into those opalescent
depths, and watch him feeling at his lines for a bite. How they must
have joked together this morning when he gave a shout and called for
help, for he could not lift the line! We all responded to the call,
and the line came up slowly. "Must be a whopper," muttered the Mate,
and refused my callous suggestion that it was a coal-bag which had got
entangled in the hook. At last, after an eternity of hauling, came up
part of an iron bedstead, dropped from some steamer in the long ago.
But the true fisherman has reserves of philosophy to cope with such
sl