"You're right," he said at last, the light breaking about his face. "I am England's David. It is for me to slay Goliath. Sinner as I am, He has chosen me to do this work for Him, and I will do it. Yes, I will do it."
He turned to the port and gazed out.
To the Parson it seemed an hour before he turned again.
The nightmare madness had passed. His face was altogether changed. It was that of a child who wakes from sleep in a panic. There was a startled little smile about it.
"Harry," he said in shy waking voice, "have I been dreaming?—or have I been talking a lot of nonsense?"
The Parson, for all his simplicity, was something of a man of the world.
"Why," he cried heartily, "you've been standing with your back to me, mumbling and grumbling, and being damned rude."
Nelson laughed.
Was the Parson wrong?—or was there in that laugh a note of almost hysterical relief?
"I'll make it up to you, Harry. I'll make it up to you, my boy." He thrust his hand into his bosom, and produced a miniature. "Look here!" in reverent voice—"my Guardian Angel."