"Dead, maybe. Everybody is dead—everybody—Tom, and the other left behind there in the grated pen! He, too, may be dying. He is faint and weary, and has so little breath after that long tramp! Ah, well! he is close to his mother now, and where else should a man die? He is tired, though—dog tired, and must rest awhile before he heaves anchor." The tide is rising. A dash of salt spray spatters his cheek. The sun comes bravely up from the sea; and, yonder, a ship is coming in. In dreamy abstraction he watches it with half-shut eyes. "How drowsy he is! How came he here? Where is he going? What a coil it is! No matter, he is going to sleep now; and by and by he will wake up, and get his bearings. It is all right—all well—he is in her arms! How beautiful she is—the blue-eyed mother! And—hush! hark! she is singing him to sleep!" His mind wanders. He murmurs irrelevantly on—"Poor mother! She is pale and worn! It will grieve her if her boy turns in without a prayer." He tries to fumble to his knees, and fails. Recomposing his limbs, he folds his large hands, childwise, upon his breast, and distinctly and reverently repeats the old, old prayer—
"Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
If I should die before I wake
I pray the Lord—"
"Good night, mother—" He is fast asleep.
Henderson has chanced upon an unfrequented strip of shore, and, though it is now high day, no one comes, not even his pursuers, who, in the coarse stiff grass must have missed his shoeless trail.
The tide is still coming in. He does not waken. Now and then an intrusive wave breaks over his feet. By and by one creeps up to his waist; and, directly, the sea gives him a broad, rough douche. He moans, and starts in his dream. Another wave! How strong and fierce it is—this sea—held in the hollow of God's safe hand!
It rouses him at last. He starts to his feet, and towering, for one brief moment, high above the seething waves, sends over the blue expanse a long, loud "Ship ahoy!" Then, shading his eyes with his thin hand, he gazes eagerly expectant—far out to sea. A slow smile breaks, like the dawn, over his face, and, folding his arms, he waits. The waves come curling in, and, breaking at his feet, ruthlessly drench him with foam and spray. He does not heed them. With straining gaze, he waits that inbound phantasmal ship. Another and a happier smile! And, with a keen cry of joy, he waves his eager hand and again sends over the sea a jubilant "Ship ahoy!" He makes a forward pace or two—a wave is coming in, huge and hungry; he sways, totters, and falls. It swallows him and hurries back. And still the sea lies broad and blue beneath the smiling heaven. The white gull skims its azure breast on rhythmic wing. Proud ships bring happy ventures gaily in; or, sailing out and on, dwindle to specks and melt at last, like shapeless dreams, into the distant blue. And still the curling waves creep with slow singing up the sand. With him "there is no more sea!"
THE END.
