"There's only one thing," continued the other. "I think you should have a peep at those powder-barrels in the sluice. Powder's a funny thing—especially when it don't go off."
"I will, sir," said the Parson. "Thank you. I ought to have thought of it myself."
He started down the slope.
A few steps away he paused and plucked a blade of grass. Then he climbed slowly back, the square face very grave.
At the feet of the dying man he halted, and took the grass-blade from his mouth.
"Sir," he said, "are you a Christian?"
At that moment, in that light, sudden though it was, the question seemed beautifully fitting.
"All men are when they are dying," came the quiet reply. "They must be.
As the world-tide ebbs, the Christ-tide flows. That is the Law."
"I ask," continued the Parson in labouring voice, "for this reason: I've no doubt you're a better man than I am. Still I'm a clergyman, though I'm not much good at it. And if you've got anything on your conscience—anything you care to tell me—I'll—I'll—in duty-bound I'll—"
Kit made a move to rise.