In their strong poetic language they poured forth their supplications; and if sometimes the prayers uttered in their meetings had been aimless, creed-bound perorations, to-day all was reality and earnestness, though tinged by the nautical imagery ever uppermost in their minds.
"'Tis our Mishteer we are coming to Thee about, O Lord," said Josh Howels, in a voice made tremulous by suppressed feeling; "but Thou knowest that. Forgive our weak words, for we are shaken in our hearts, and blinded with our tears. Spare us the Mishteer, we beseech Thee, for without him how can we steer our frail barks across the troubled sea of life? When the storms arise, and we are tossed about in the waves, who will point us to Thee? Spare him, O Lord, for the aged pilgrims still to lean upon! so that the middle-aged may not lose his companionship, and that the children may still have his example to steer by!"
Tears and sobs filled up the pauses in the prayer.
"But if," he added, and here there was a breathless silence, "if it be not Thy will to spare him to us, if he must go, then, Lord, pilot him safely into the harbour! guide his frail bark over the dark and stormy waters! make a rift in the clouds, O God! and give him a glimpse of the Morning Star!"
One after another they knelt and poured out their souls in prayer, with the strong craving for relief from the tension of fear and sorrow which was weighing them down, and it was three o'clock in the afternoon before the meeting broke up. Of course they could not separate without singing a hymn. And that hymn was long remembered at Mwntseison; its rising and falling cadences had never so torn their heartstrings—never hymn before had been so mingled with sobs and tears; and when it came to an end, they left the chapel in solemn silence.
In a short time they were once more gathered round the scene of the fire, and anxiously inquiring for news of the Mishteer's condition.
Suddenly there was a cry of horror from the children, for where the flames had risen highest, and the fire had burnt the fiercest, they pointed to a little heap of charred bones, which lay in the midst of the debris. They would scarcely have been recognisable as human remains but for the iron buckles of Gwen's wooden shoes which lay beside them.
"Dear God!" said the scared villagers, "who'd have thought of such a thing! 'N'wncwl Jos was right after all! Oh, vila'nes! vila'nes!"[[1]] And not even the gruesome sight before them could quite restrain their expressions of horrified anger. But a silence fell upon them when Lallo appeared in their midst.
"Oh, is it true what I hear?" she cried; "that my Gwen is burnt? that she did this dreadful deed? Gwae fi[[2]] that I had taken the Mishteer's advice before it was too late! Oh, merch anwl i! my beloved daughter!" and turning with imploring hands to the crowd of bystanders, she pleaded for their forgiveness. "Don't be too angry with her. Remember my beloved child was not wise; ever since she lost her baby she wasn't wise. Oh, my Gwen! don't judge her too harshly!"
Even the strong men were touched by her sorrow, and gently led her away, while all that remained of poor Gwen was reverently gathered together.