Cæsar stood like a strong man amidst their moans and groans, their bowings of the head and clappings of the hands, and, when he heard the farmer, his look was severe.
“Cloddy,” said he, “how do you dare to doubt the providence of God?”
“Aisy to talk, Mr. Cregeen,” the farmer whined, “but you've got your own harvest saved,” and then Cæsar had no resource but to punish the man in prayer. “The Lord had sent His storm to reprove some that were making too sure of His mercies; but there was grace in the gale, only they wouldn't be patient and trust to God's providence; there was milk in the breast, only the wayward child wouldn't take time to find the teat. Lord, lead them to true stillness——”
In the midst of Cæsar's prayer there was a sudden roar outside, and he leapt abruptly to his feet with a look of vexation. “I believe in my heart that's the mill-wheel broken loose,” said he, “and if it is, the corn on the kiln will be going like a whirlingig.”
“Trust in God's providence, Cæsar,” cried the farmer.
“So I will,” said Cæsar, catching up his hat, “but I'll put out my kiln fire first.”
When Pete stepped out of the porch, he felt himself smitten as by an invisible wing, and he gasped like a fish with too much air. A quick pain in the side at that moment reminded him of his bullet-wound, but his heels had heart in them, and he set off to run. The night had fallen, but a green rent was torn in the leaden sky, and through this the full moon appeared.
When he got to Ramsey the tide was up to the old cross, slates were flying like kites, and the harbour sounded like a battlefield with its thunderous roar of rigging. He made for the dressmaker's, and heard that Kate had not been there for six hours. At the draper's he learned that at two o'clock in the afternoon she had been seen going up Ballure. The sound rocket was fired as he pushed through the town. A schooner riding to an anchor in the bay was flying her ensign for help. The sea was terrific—a slaty grey, streaked with white foam like quartz veins; but the men who had been idling on the quay when the water was calm were now struggling, chafing, and fighting to go out on it, for the blood of the old Vikings was in them.
Going by the water-trough, Pete called on Black Tom, who was civil and conciliatory until he heard his errand, then growled with disappointment, but nevertheless answered his question. Yes, he had seen the young woman. She went up early in the “everin,” and left him good-day. Giving this grateful news, Black Tom could not deny himself a word of bitterness to poison the pleasure. “And when you are finding her,” said he, “you'll be doing well to take her in tow, for I'm thinking there's some that's for throwing her a rope.”
“Who d'ye mane?” said Pete.