"The sea is always muttering," said Tom Horn. "I've listened to it hour after hour; it's always muttering over something it's hidden. But it never tells; it keeps its secrets well."
The graveyard was beside the quaint brick church; a low wall inclosed it, and in June-time rose-vines climbed it and shook their wonders in the wind. It was a well-kept churchyard, orderly and unfrequented; in the cold months the snow covered the quiet graves gently; in summer-time the grass was very green.
In a far corner of the wall was set the stone shaft to Captain Weir. Though his body had been buried at sea, here sober thoughts of him would be kept by his fellow-citizens. Cut deep into the base of the monument were the words:
To the memory of Isaac Weir, once master in the Merchant Marine. He was a Steady Friend, and a Faithful Servant, and Died at last in Defense of Justice and the Law.
"A true word," said Anthony, as the last thing had been spoken, dedicating the stone to future generations. "A true, fair word."
"As honest a man as day ever lit a path for," said Mr. Stroude, solemn of face and beaver hat in hand. "He could ill be spared."
Mademoiselle said no word, but put a great bunch of blossoms at the foot of the stone; and there were tears in her eyes.
"His was a strong hand," said Christopher Dent. "And a brave spirit. I mind well how he insisted that I give him the facts that sent him away to sea and to his death. A friend was in peril, and he must go to him. A splendid, high resolve for any man."
Tom Horn stood silent and said nothing at all; and Mr. Sparhawk, dapper, with more the look of a wise old bird than ever before, took a careful pinch of snuff. And neither did he have any words in the matter, but put the snuff-box into his waistcoat pocket and listened considerately to the sayings of his neighbors.