For a long time Gascoyne sat in deep silence as if he were following out the train of thought which had been suggested by the last words. Presently his ideas again found vent in muttered speech.
“In my pride I have said that there is no God. I don’t think I ever believed that; but I tried to believe it, for I knew that my deeds were evil. Surely my own words will condemn me, for I have said that I think myself a fool, and does not the Bible say that ‘the fool hath said in his heart there is no God?’ Ay, I remember it well. The words were printed in my brain when I learnt the Psalms of David at my mother’s knee, long, long ago. My mother! what bitter years have passed since that day! How little did ye dream, mother, that your child would come to this. God help me!”
The pirate relapsed into silence, and a low groan escaped him. But his thoughts seemed too powerful to be restrained within his breast, for they soon broke forth again in words.
“Your two texts have come true, pastor Mason. You did not mean them for me, but they were sent to me. ‘There is no rest, saith my God, to the wicked.’ No rest! I have not known rest since I was a boy. ‘Be sure your sin shall find you out.’ I laughed at these words once; they laugh at me now. I have found them out to be true—and found it out too late. Too late! Is it too late? If these words be true, are not all the words of God equally true? ‘The blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin.’ That was what you said, pastor Mason, on that Sunday morning when the savages were stealing down on us. It gave me comfort then, but, ah me! it seems to give me no comfort now. Oh! that I had resisted the tempter when he first came to me! Strange! I often heard this said long, long ago; but I laughed at it—not in scorn, no, it was in easy indifference. I did not believe it had anything to do with me. And now, I suppose, if I were to stand in the public streets and cry that I had been mistaken, with all the fervour of a bursting heart, men would laugh at me in an easy way—as I did then.
“I don’t fear death. I have often faced it, and I don’t remember ever feeling afraid of death. Yet I shrink from death now. Why is this? What a mystery my thoughts and feelings are to me. I know not what to think. But it will soon be over, for I feel certain that I shall be doomed to die. God help me!”
Gascoyne again became silent. When he had remained thus a few minutes his attention was roused by the sound of footsteps and of whispering voices close under his window. Presently the key was put in the lock, the heavy bolt shot back, and the door creaked on its hinges as it opened slowly.
Gascoyne knew by the sound that several men entered the cell, but as they carried no light he could not tell how many there were. He was of course surprised at a visit at such an unusual hour, as well as at the stealthy manner in which his visitors entered; but having made up his mind to submit quietly to whatever was in store for him, and knowing that he could not hope for much tenderness at the hands of the inhabitants of Sandy Cove, he was not greatly disturbed. Still, he would not have been human had not his pulse quickened under the influence of a strong desire to spring up and defend himself.
The door of the cell was shut and locked as quietly as it had been opened; then followed the sound of footsteps crossing the floor.
“Is that you, jailer?” demanded Gascoyne.
“Ye’ll know that time enough,” answered a gruff voice that was not unfamiliar to the prisoner’s ear.