The painter, as if in an access of grief, turned abruptly from the fire, walked over to the window, pulled one of the blowing curtains aside and approached his face to the glass.
"In spite of the storm it is still so light that I can see those graves," he said in a low voice.
"Don't look at them, Sir Graham. Let us talk of other things."
"And—and—yes, Uniacke, that poor, mad Skipper is still out there, lingering among them. He is by the churchyard wall, where you were standing this evening in the twilight: one would say he was watching."
The clergyman had also risen from his seat. He moved a step or two across the little room, then stood still, looking at Sir Graham, who was half concealed by the fluttering curtains.
"He is just where I stood?" Uniacke asked.
"Yes."
"Then he is watching."
"By a grave?"
"Yes. Only one of his crew ever gained the land. He gained it—a corpse. He is buried by that wall. I was reading the inscription upon his tombstone, and wondering—"