"And so, by God, I will," cried the Deemster, and his eye traversed the men behind his brother.
The Bishop then took a step forward. "I am that man," he said, and then there was a great silence.
Thorkell's face flinched, his head fell between his shoulders, his manner grew dogged, he said not a word, his braggadocio was gone.
The Bishop approached the Governor. "You have no more right to rent these mountains than to rent yonder sea," he said, and he stretched his arm toward the broad blue line to the west. "They belong to God and to the poor. Let me warn you, sir, that as sure as you set up one stone to enclose these true God's acres, I shall be the first to pull that stone down."
The Grand Enquest broke up in confusion, and the mountains were saved to the people.
It blew hard on the hilltop that day, and the next morning the news spread through the island that a ship laden with barley had put in from bad weather at Douglas Harbor. "And a terrible wonderful sight of corn, plenty for all, plenty, plenty," was the word that went round. In three hours' time hundreds of men and women trooped down to the quay with money to buy. To all comers the master shook his head, and refused to sell.
"Sell, man—sell, sell," they cried.
"I can't sell. The cargo is not mine. I'm a poor man myself," said the master.
"Well, and what's that it's sayin', 'When one poor man helps another poor man God laughs.'"
The Bishop came to the ship's side, and tried to treat for the cargo.