A plash of oars announced the approach of the boat. The captain hallooed into the darkness: “Did you find him?”
“Yes, we have him here,” came back the answer.
“Good. Bring him alongside and we’ll hoist him up. We have the bier in readiness. He shall lie in state to-night.”
“But he’s not dead,” shouted back the voice from the night.
“Not dead?” repeated the captain, thunderstruck. “But what about the bier, then?”
A thin, feeble voice came back. “Your work will not be wasted, my friend. It will be but a short time before I need your bier.”
The captain, a little abashed, answered in a gentler tone, “We thought, holy father, that the heathens had done their worst and that Almighty God had already given you the martyr’s crown.”
By this time the boat had emerged from the darkness. In the stern sheets an old man was lying, his white hair and beard stained with blood, his Dominican’s robe torn and fouled with dust. At the sight of him, the captain pulled off his cap and dropped upon his knees.
“Give us your blessing, holy father,” he begged.
The old man raised his hand and wished him peace.