"Leave us alone together," said Stephen Orry; and Greeba, after beating out his pillow and settling his head on it, was about to move away, when he whispered, "Not you," and held her back.
Then with one accord the others called on to him not to tarry over carnal thoughts, for his soul was passing through dark waters, and he should never take rest until he had cast anchor after a troublous voyage.
"Get religion," cried Kane Wade. "Lay hoult of a free salvation," cried old Chalse. "All flesh is as grass," cried Matt Mylechreest. "Pray without ceasing," they all cried together, with much besides in the same wild strain.
"I cannot pray," the sick man muttered.
"Then we'll pray for you, mate," shouted Kane Wade.
"Ah, pray, pray, pray," mumbled Stephen Orry, "but it's no good; it's too late, too late."
"Now is the 'pointed time," shouted Kane Wade. "The Lord can save to the uttermost the worst sinner of us all."
"If I'm a sinner, let me not be a coward in my sins," said Stephen Orry. "Have pity on me and leave me."
But Kane Wade went on to tell the story of his own conversion:—It was on a Saturday night of the mackerel season down at Kinsale. The conviction had been borne in upon him that if he did not hear the pardoning voice before the clock struck twelve, he would be damned to all eternity. When the clock began to warn for midnight the hair of his flesh stood up, for he was still unsaved. But before it had finished striking the Saviour was his, and he was rejoicing in a blessed salvation.
"How can you torture a poor dying man?" muttered Stephen Orry.