"The fishermen refused at first to carry out the censure, and then excused themselves on the ground that St. Patrick's day was too tempestuous. But being threatened with fines, they did it at last—in the depth of winter."
Fenella's gaiety had gone. Stowell gazed at her face in the moonlight. It was quivering and her bosom was heaving.
"And the Bishop was a saint, you say?"
"If ever there was one."
"He ordered the woman to be dragged through the sea at the tail of a boat?"
"Yes."
"And what did he do to the man?"
Stowell gasped. There was silence for a moment, and then the Governor's voice came from the skylight of the cabin:
"Are you people never going to turn in?"
"Presently."