"But I can't bury a sea-boot," quoth the parson.
The fellow scratched his head. "Na, na!" said he.
Then he wanted to know how much there ought to be of a human body before it could have the benefit of Christian burial.
"That I cannot exactly tell you," said the parson; "a tooth, or a finger, or hair clippings is not enough to read the burial service over. Anyhow, there ought to be so much remaining that one can see that a soul has been in it. But to read Holy Scripture over a toe or two in a sea-boot! Oh, no! that would never do!"
But Isaac watched his opportunity, and managed to get the sea-boot into the churchyard on the sly, all the same.
And home he went.
It seemed to him that he had done the best he could. It was better, after all, that something of his brother should lie so near God's house than that he should have heaved the boot back into the black sea again.
But, towards autumn, it so happened that, as he lay out among the skerries on the look-out for seals, and the ebb-tide drove masses of tangled seaweed towards him, he fished up a knife-belt and an empty sheath with his oar-blade.
He recognised them at once as his brother's.
The tarred wire covering of the sheath had been loosened and bleached by the sea; and he remembered quite well how, when his brother had sat and cobbled away at this sheath, he had chatted and argued with him about the leather for his belt which he had taken from an old horse which they had lately killed.