Harrington slowly lifted his tranced and peaceful face to the sky, and gazed upon the solemn and awful golden rain of stars.
“That is the way I feel to-night, Antony,” he said in his sweet and hollow dying voice. “That was your true self, your soul. That was God in you.”
There was a long silence.
“Do you understand, Antony?” said Harrington.
“No, Marster.”
“It will be made clear to you,” answered Harrington, after a pause. “When you are dying it will begin to be made clear to you. It will grow clearer and clearer as you leave the world, and when you are dead you will understand.”
The voice was thrilling, tender and low. Awed by its hollow music, the fugitive sat silently revolving the strange words in his simple mind. Gradually his thoughts went from him, melted in the vast peace of the brooding night, and soon, lulled by the regular sound of the rowing, he sank away in a sort of waking doze. Harrington sat motionless, dreaming upon the stars, his tranquil soul ebbing in suffering from his dying frame. No word was said—no sound was heard but the regular plash and drip of the rolling oars, and the steady and continuous seethe of the sea.
A long and weary hour went by, and through the lonely darkness, weirdly lit by the wan gleam of the low crescent moon, the dark shore and dim houses began to loom over the weltering flood. The rowers redoubled their energy, and the boat flew seething through the brine. Half an hour more, and her keel grated on the sand.
Wentworth and Bagasse sprang up hot and panting, flung down their oars, and leaped ashore. The Captain waited till they had seized the painter, then shipped his oars, and left the boat followed by Antony. Dropping the painter, and hauling all together on the boat, they drew it up high and dry upon the sands.