The hermit assured him that it was but the scream of the frightened sea-birds.
"Och and och no, Mr. Tomnahurich. Mind you, I'll no be sayin' it was Matheson himself—it was his wraith, sure and sure enough!"
Prayers were row said, and a hymn sung to that beautiful old melody called "Martyrdom", the hermit leading with his clear and manly voice, which many a night, when far at sea, had been heard high over the raging storm and the dash of angry seas:—
"Take comfort, Christians, when your friends
In Jesus fall asleep;
Their better being never ends:
Why then dejected weep?
"Why inconsolable as those
To whom no hope is given?
Death is the messenger of peace,
And calls the soul to heaven."
All seemed more cheerful after this, and breakfast was cooked and eaten with relish.
Then the hermit and the two boys, who were already great friends, ascended the cliff. They met Nugent, and were glad to hear that Matty and her mother were well and happy. They had been told nothing about the lost sailor.
"There will be no getting on shore to-day, I fear," said Mr Nugent.
The hermit shook his head and pointed to the seething sea, on which white horses[[1]] were riding.
[[1]] White horses=the spume on the breaking waves.