A frown gathered on the pirate’s face, and he compressed his lips for a few moments.
“And the alternative?” he asked.
“Is death.”
Again there was a brief pause. Then he said slowly, almost bitterly—
“Oh, death! you have hovered over my head pretty steadily of late! It is a question whether I had not better let you come on and end these weary struggles, rather than become a hopeless cripple in the prime of life! Why should I fear death now more than before?”
“Have you any hope of eternal life, Rosco?”
“How can I tell? What do I know about eternal life!”
“Then you are not prepared to die; and let me earnestly assure you that there is something well worth living for, though at present you do not—you cannot know it.”
“Enough. Let it be as the doctor advises,” said the pirate in a tone of resignation.
That night the operation was successfully performed, and the unfortunate man was afterwards carefully tended by Ebony.
Next day Tomeo and Buttchee were told that their old friend Zeppa could not yet be seen, but that he required many little comforts from the “Furious,” which must be brought up with as little delay as possible. That was sufficient. Forgetting themselves in their anxiety to aid their friend, these affectionate warriors went off on their mission, and were soon out of sight.
When Zeppa awoke at last with a deep sigh, it was still dark. This was fortunate, for he could not see whose hand administered the physic, and was too listless and weak to inquire. It was bright day when he awoke the second time and looked up inquiringly in his son’s face.
“What, are you still there, Orley?” he said faintly, while the habitual sweet expression stole over his pale features, though it was quickly followed by the perplexed look. “But how comes this change? You look so much older than you are, dear boy. Would God that I could cease this dreaming!”
“You are not dreaming now, father. I am indeed Orley. You have been ill and delirious, but, thanks be to God, are getting well again.”
“What?” exclaimed the invalid; “has it been all a dream, then? Were you not thrown into the sea by mutineers, and have I not been wandering for months or years on a desert island? But then, if these things be all dreams,” he added, opening his eyes wide and fixing them intently on Orlando’s face, “how comes it that I still dream the change in you? You are Orley, yet not Orley! How is that?”
“Yes, all that is true, dear, dear father,” said the youth, gently clasping one of the helpless hands that lay crossed on Zeppa’s broad chest; “I was thrown overboard by the mutineers years ago, but, thank God, I was not drowned; and you have been wandering here in—in—very ill, for years; but, thank God again, you are better, and I have been mercifully sent to deliver you.”
“I can’t believe it, Orley, for I have so often seen you, and you have so often given me the slip—yet there does seem something very real about you just now—very real, though so changed—yet it is the same voice, and you never spoke to me before in my dreams—except once. Yes, I think it was once, that you spoke. I remember it well, for the sound sent such a thrill to my heart. Oh! God forbid that it should again fade away as it has done so often!”
“It will not fade, father. The time you speak of was only yesterday, when I found you. You have been sleeping since, and a doctor is attending you.”
“A doctor! where did he come from?”
At that moment Ebony approached with some food in a tin pan. The invalid observed him at once.
“Ebony! can that be you? Why—when—oh! my poor brain feels so light—it seems as if a puff of wind would blow it away. I must have been very ill.” Zeppa spoke feebly, and closed his eyes, from which one or two tears issued—blessed tears!—the first he had shed for many a day.
“His reason is restored,” whispered the doctor in Orlando’s ear, “but he must be left to rest.”
Orlando’s heart was too full to find relief through the lips.
“I cannot understand it at all,” resumed Zeppa, reopening his eyes; “least of all can I understand you, Orley, but my hope is in God. I would sleep now, but you must not let go my hand.” (Orlando held it tighter.) “One word more. Your dear mother?”
“Is well—and longs to see you.”
A profound, long-drawn sigh followed, as if an insupportable burden had been removed from the wearied soul, and Zeppa sank into a sleep so peaceful that it seemed as if the spirit had forsaken the worn out frame. But a steady, gentle heaving of the chest told that life was still there. During the hours that followed, Orlando sat quite motionless, like a statue, firmly grasping his father’s hand.
Chapter Thirteen
A few days after the discovery of Zeppa by his son, a trading vessel chanced to touch at the island, the captain of which no sooner saw the British man-of-war than he lowered his gig, went aboard in a state of great excitement, and told how that, just two days before, he had been chased by a pirate in latitude so-and-so and longitude something else!
A messenger was immediately sent in hot haste to Sugar-loaf Mountain to summon Orlando.
“I’m sorry to be obliged to leave you in such a hurry,” said Captain Fitzgerald, as they were about to part, “but duty calls, and I must obey. I promise you, however, either to return here or to send your mission-vessel for you, if it be available. Rest assured that you shall not be altogether forsaken.”
Having uttered these words of consolation, the captain spread his sails and departed, leaving Orlando, and his father, Waroonga, Tomeo, Buttchee, Ebony, and Rosco on Sugar-loaf Island.
Several days after this, Waroonga entered the hut of Ongoloo and sat down. The chief was amusing himself at the time by watching his prime minister Wapoota playing with little Lippy, who had become a favourite at the palace since Zeppa had begun to take notice of her.
“I would palaver with the chief,” said the missionary.
“Let Lippy be gone,” said the chief.
Wapoota rolled the brown child unceremoniously out of the hut, and composed his humorous features into an expression of solemnity.
“My brother,” continued the missionary, “has agreed to become a Christian and burn his idols?”
“Yes,” replied Ongoloo with an emphatic nod, for he was a man of decision. “I like to hear what you tell me. I feel that I am full of naughtiness. I felt that before you came here. I have done things that I knew to be wrong, because I have been miserable after doing them—yet, when in passion, I have done them again. I have wondered why I was miserable. Now I know; you tell me the Great Father was whispering to my spirit. It must be true. I have resisted Him, and He made me miserable. I deserve it. I deserve to die. When any of my men dare to resist me I kill them. I have dared to resist the Great Father, yet He has not killed me. Why not? you tell me He is full of love and mercy even to His rebels! I believe it. You say, He sent His Son Jesus to die for me, and to deliver me from my sins. It is well, I accept this Saviour—and all my people shall accept Him.”
“My brother’s voice makes me glad,” returned Waroonga; “but while you can accept this Saviour for yourself, it is not possible to force other people to do so.”
“Not possible!” cried the despotic chief, with vehemence. “Do you not know that I can force my people to do whatever I please?—at least I can kill them if they refuse.”
“You cannot do that and, at the same time, be a Christian.”
“But,” resumed Ongoloo, with a look of, so to speak, fierce perplexity, “I can at all events make them burn their idols.”
“True, but that would only make them hate you in their hearts, and perhaps worship their idols more earnestly in secret. No, my brother; there is but one weapon given to Christians, but that is a sharp and powerful weapon. It is called Love; we must win others to Christ by voice and example, we may not drive them. It is not permitted. It is not possible.”
The chief cast his frowning eyes on the ground, and so remained for some time, while the missionary silently prayed. It was a critical moment. The man so long accustomed to despotic power could not easily bring his mind to understand the process of winning men. He did, indeed, know how to win the love of his wives and children—for he was naturally of an affectionate disposition, but as to winning the obedience of warriors or slaves—the thing was preposterous! Yet he had sagacity enough to perceive that while he could compel the obedience of the body—or kill it—he could not compel the obedience of the soul.
“How can I,” he said at last, with a touch of indignation still in his tone, “I, a chief and a descendant of chiefs, stoop to ask, to beg, my slaves to become Christians? It may not be, I can only command them.”
“Woh!” exclaimed Wapoota, unable to restrain his approval of the sentiment.
“You cannot even command yourself, Ongoloo, to be a Christian. How, then, can you command others? It is the Great Father who has put it into your heart to wish to be a Christian. If you will now take His plan, you will succeed. If you refuse, and try your own plan, you shall fail.”
“Stay,” cried the chief, suddenly laying such a powerful grasp on Waroonga’s shoulder, that he winced; “did you not say that part of His plan is the forgiveness of enemies?”
“I did.”
“Must I, then, forgive the Raturans if I become a Christian?”
“Even so.”
“Then it is impossible. What! forgive the men whose forefathers have tried to rob my forefathers of their mountain since our nation first sprang into being! Forgive the men who have for ages fought with our fathers, and tried to make slaves of our women and children—though they always failed because they are cowardly dogs! Forgive the Raturans? Never! Impossible!”
“With man this is impossible. With the Great Father all things are possible. Leave your heart in His hands, Ongoloo; don’t refuse His offer to save you from an unforgiving spirit, as well as from other sins, and that which to you seems impossible will soon become easy.”
“No—never!” reiterated the chief with decision, as he cut further conversation short by rising and stalking out of the hut, closely followed by the sympathetic Wapoota.
Waroonga was not much depressed by this failure. He knew that truth would prevail in time, and did not expect that the natural enmity of man would be overcome at the very first sound of the Gospel. He was therefore agreeably surprised when, on the afternoon of that same day, Ongoloo entered the hut which had been set apart for him and the two Ratinga chiefs, and said—
“Come, brother, I have called a council of my warriors. Come, you shall see the working of the Great Father.”
The missionary rose at once and went after the chief with much curiosity, accompanied by Tomeo and Buttchee: Zeppa and his son, with Ebony and the pirate, being still in the mountains.
Ongoloo led them to the top of a small hill on which a sacred hut or temple stood. Here the prisoners of war used to be slaughtered, and here the orgies of heathen worship were wont to be practised. An immense crowd of natives—indeed the entire tribe except the sick and infirm—crowned the hill. This, however, was no new sight to the missionary, and conveyed no hint of what was pending.
The crowd stood in two orderly circles—the inner one consisting of the warriors, the outer of the women and children. Both fell back to let the chief and his party pass.
As the temple-hut was open at one side, its interior, with the horrible instruments of execution and torture, as well as skulls, bones, and other ghastly evidences of former murder, was exposed to view. On the centre of the floor lay a little pile of rudely carved pieces of timber, with some loose cocoa-nut fibre beneath them. A small fire burned on something that resembled an altar in front of the hut.
The chief, standing close to this fire, cleared his throat and began an address with the words, “Men, warriors, women and children, listen!” And they did listen with such rapt attention that it seemed as if not only ears, but eyes, mouths, limbs, and muscles were engaged in the listening act, for this mode of address—condescending as it did to women and children—was quite new to them, and portended something unusual.
“Since these men came here,” continued the chief, pointing to Waroonga and his friends, “we have heard many wonderful things that have made us think. Before they came we heard some of the same wonderful things from the great white man, whose head is light but whose heart is wise and good. I have made up my mind, now, to become a Christian. My warriors, my women, my children need not be told what that is. They have all got ears and have heard. I have assembled you here to see my gods burned (he pointed to the pile in the temple), and I ask all who are willing, to join me in making this fire a big one. I cannot compel your souls. I could compel your bodies, but I will not!”
He looked round very fiercely as he said this, as though he still had half a mind to kill one or two men to prove his point, and those who stood nearest to him moved uneasily, as though they more than half expected him to do some mischief, but the fierce look quickly passed away, and he went on in gentle, measured tones—
“Waroonga tells me that the Book of the Great Father says, those who become Christians must love each other: therefore we must no more hate, or quarrel, or fight, or kill—not even our enemies.”
There was evident surprise on every face, and a good deal of decided shaking of heads, as if such demands were outrageous.
“Moreover, it is expected of Christians that they shall not revenge themselves, but suffer wrong patiently.”
The eyebrows rose higher at this.
“Still more; it is demanded that we shall forgive our enemies. If we become Christians, we must open our arms wide, and take the Raturans to our hearts!”
This was a climax, as Ongoloo evidently intended, for he paused a long time, while loud expressions of dissent and defiance were heard on all sides, though it was not easy to see who uttered them.
“Now, warriors, women and children, here I am—a Christian—who will join me?”
“I will!” exclaimed Wapoota, stepping forward with several idols in his arms, which he tossed contemptuously into the temple.
There was a general smile of incredulity among the warriors, for Wapoota was well known to be a time-server: nevertheless they were mistaken, for the jester was in earnest this time.
Immediately after that, an old, white-headed warrior, bent nearly double with infirmity and years, came forward and acted as Wapoota had done. Then, turning to the people, he addressed them in a weak, trembling voice. There was a great silence, for this was the patriarch of the tribe; had been a lion-like man in his youth, and was greatly respected.
“I join the Christians,” he said, slowly. “Have I not lived and fought for long—very long?”
“Yes, yes,” from many voices.
“And what good has come of it?” demanded the patriarch. “Have not the men of the Mountain fought with the men of the Swamp since the Mountain and the Swamp came from the hand of the Great Father?” (A pause, and again, “Yes, yes,” from many voices.) “And what good has come of it? Here is the Mountain; yonder is the Swamp, as they were from the beginning; and what the better are we that the swamp has been flooded and the mountain drenched with the blood of our fathers? Hatred has been tried from the beginning of time, and has failed. Let us now, my children, try Love, as the Great Father counsels us to do.”
A murmur of decided applause followed the old man’s speech, and Ongoloo, seizing him by both shoulders, gazed earnestly into his withered face. Had they been Frenchmen, these two would no doubt have kissed each other’s cheeks; if Englishmen, they might have shaken hands warmly; being Polynesian savages, they rubbed noses.
Under the influence of this affectionate act, a number of the warriors ran off, fetched their gods, and threw them on the temple floor. Then Ongoloo, seizing a brand from the fire, thrust it into the loose cocoa-nut fibre, and set the pile in a blaze. Quickly the flames leaped into the temple thatch, and set the whole structure on fire. As the fire roared and leaped, Waroonga, with Tomeo and Buttchee, started a hymn. It chanced to be one which Zeppa had already taught the people, who at once took it up, and sent forth such a shout of praise as had never before echoed among the palm-groves of that island. It confirmed the waverers, and thus, under the influence of sympathy, the whole tribe came that day to be of one mind!
The sweet strains, rolling over the plains and uplands, reached the cliffs at last, and struck faintly on the ears of a small group assembled in a mountain cave. The group consisted of Zeppa and his son, Ebony and the pirate.
“It sounds marvellously like a hymn,” said Orlando, listening.
“Ah! dear boy, it is one I taught the natives when I stayed with them,” said Zeppa; “but it never reached so far as this before.”
Poor Zeppa was in his right mind again, but oh! how weak and wan and thin the raging fever had left him!
Rosco, who was also reduced to a mere shadow of his former self, listened to the faint sound with a troubled expression, for it carried him back to the days of innocence, when he sang it at his mother’s knee.
“Dat’s oncommon strange,” said Ebony. “Nebber heard de sound come so far before. Hope de scoundrils no got hold ob grog.”
“Shame on you, Ebony, to suspect such a thing!” said Orlando. “You would be better employed getting things ready for to-morrow’s journey than casting imputations on our hospitable friends.”
“Dar’s not’ing to git ready, massa,” returned the negro. “Eberyting’s prepared to start arter breakfust.”
“That’s well, and I am sure the change to the seashore will do you good, father, as well as Rosco. You’ve both been too long here. The cave is not as dry as one could wish—and, then, you’ll be cheered by the sound of children playing round you.”
“Yes, it will be pleasant to have Lippy running out and in again,” said Zeppa.
They did not converse much, for the strength of both Zeppa and Rosco had been so reduced that they could not even sit up long without exhaustion, but Orlando kept up their spirits by prattling away on every subject that came into his mind—and especially of the island of Ratinga.
While they were thus engaged they heard the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, and next moment Tomeo and Buttchee bounded over the bushes, glaring and panting from the rate at which they had raced up the hill to tell the wonderful news!
“Eberyting bu’nt?” exclaimed Ebony, whose eyes and teeth showed so much white that his face seemed absolutely to sparkle.
“Everything. Idols and temple!” repeated the two chiefs, in the Ratinga tongue, and in the same breath.
“An’ nebber gwine to fight no more?” asked Ebony, with a grin, that might be more correctly described as a split, from ear to ear.
“Never more!” replied the chiefs.
Next morning the two invalids were tenderly conveyed on litters down the mountain side and over the plain, and before the afternoon had passed away, they found a pleasant temporary resting-place in the now Christian village.
Chapter Fourteen
The slopes and knolls and palm-fringed cliffs of Ratinga were tipped with gold by the western sun one evening as he declined towards his bed in the Pacific, when Marie Zeppa wandered with Betsy Waroonga and her brown little daughter Zariffa towards the strip of bright sand in front of the village.
The two matrons, besides being filled with somewhat similar anxieties as to absent ones, were naturally sympathetic, and frequently sought each other’s company. The lively Anglo-French woman, whose vivacity was not altogether subdued even by the dark cloud that hung over her husband’s fate, took special pleasure in the sedate, earnest temperament of her native missionary friend, whose difficulty in understanding a joke, coupled with her inability to control her laughter when, after painful explanation, she did manage to comprehend one, was a source of much interest—an under-current, as it were, of quiet amusement.
“Betsy,” said Marie, as they walked slowly along, their naked feet just laved by the rippling sea, “why do you persist in wearing that absurd bonnet? If you would only let me cut four inches off the crown and six off the front, it would be much more becoming. Do let me, there’s a dear. You know I was accustomed to cutting and shaping when in England.”
“But what for the use?” asked Betsy, turning her large brown eyes solemnly on her companion. “It no seems too big to me. Besides, when brudder Gubbins give him to me he—”
“Who is brudder Gubbins?” asked Marie, with a look of smiling surprise.
“Oh! you know. The min’ster—Gubbins—what come to the mission-station just afore me an’ Waroonga left for Ratinga.”
“Oh! I see; the Reverend Mr Gubbins—well, what did he say about the bonnet?”
“W’at did he say? ah! he say much mor’n I kin remember, an’ he look at the bonnet with’s head a one side—so sad an’ pitiful like. ‘Ah! Betsy Waroonga,’ ses he, ‘this just the thing for you. Put it on an’ take it to Ratinga, it’ll press the natives there.’”
“Impress them, you mean, Betsy.”
“Well, p’raps it was that. Anyhow I put it on, an’ he looked at me so earnest an’ ses with a sigh, ‘Betsy,’ ses he, ‘it minds me o’ my grandmother, an’ she was a good old soul—brought me up, Betsy, she did. Wear it for her sake an’ mine. I make a present of it to you.’”
“Ah! Betsy,” said Marie, “the Reverend Gubbins must be a wag, I suspect.”
“W’at’s a wag, Marie?”
“Don’t you know what a wag is?”
“Oh, yis, I know. When leetil bird sit on a stone an shake hims tail, I’ve heerd you an Orley say it wag—but misser Gubbins he got no tail to wag—so how can he wag it?”
“I didn’t say he wagged it, Betsy,” returned Marie, repressing a laugh, “but—you’ll never get to understand what a wag means, so I won’t try to explain. Look! Zariffa is venturesome. You’d better call her back.”
Zariffa was indeed venturesome. Clad in a white flannel petticoat and a miniature coal-scuttle, she was at that moment wading so deep into the clear sea that she had to raise the little garment as high as her brown bosom to keep it out of the water; and with all her efforts she was unsuccessful, for, with that natural tendency of childhood to forget and neglect what cannot be seen, she had allowed the rear-part of the petticoat to drop into the sea.
This, however, occasioned little or no anxiety to Betsy Waroonga, for she was not an anxious mother; but when, raising her eyes a little higher, she beheld the tip of the back-fin of a shark describing lively circles in the water as if it had scented the tender morsel and were searching for it, her easy indifference vanished. She gave vent to a yell and made a bound that told eloquently of the savage beneath the missionary, and, in another instant was up to the knees in the water with the coal-scuttle quivering violently. Seizing Zariffa, she squeezed her almost to the bursting point against her palpitating breast, while the shark headed seaward in bitter disappointment.
“Don’t go so deep agin, Ziffa,” said the mother, with a gasp, as she set her little one down on the sand.
“No, musser,” said the obedient child; and she kept on the landward side of her parent thereafter with demonstrative care.
It may be remarked here that, owing to Waroonga’s love for, and admiration of, white men, Zariffa’s native tongue was English—broken, of course, to the pattern of her parents.
“It was a narrow escape, Betsy,” said Marie, solemnised by the incident.
“Yes, thank the Lord,” replied the other, continuing to gaze out to sea long after the cause of her alarm had disappeared.
“Oh! Marie,” she added, with a sigh, “when will the dear men come home?”
The question drove all the playful humour out of poor Marie, and her eyes filled with sudden tears.
“When, indeed? Oh! Betsy, my man will never come. For Orley and the others I have little fear, but my Antonio—”
Poor Marie could say no more. Her nature was as quickly, though not as easily, provoked to deep sorrow as to gaiety. She covered her face with her hands.
As she did so the eyes of Betsy, which had for some time been fixed on the horizon, opened to their widest, and her countenance assumed a look so deeply solemn that it might have lent a touch of dignity even to the coal-scuttle bonnet, if it had not bordered just a little too closely on the ridiculous.
“Ho! Marie,” she exclaimed in a whisper so deep that her friend looked up with a startled air; “see! look—a sip.”
“A ship—where?” said the other, turning her eager gaze on the horizon. But she was not so quick-sighted as her companion, and when at length she succeeded in fixing the object with her eyes, she pronounced it a gull.
“No ’snot a gull—a sip,” retorted Betsy.
“Ask Zariffa. Her eyes are better than ours,” suggested Marie.
“Kumeer, Ziffa!” shouted Betsy.
Zariffa came, and, at the first glance, exclaimed. “A sip!”
The news spread in a moment for other and sharper eyes in the village had already observed the sail, and, ere long, the beach was crowded with natives.
By that time most of the Ratingans had adopted more or less, chiefly less, of European costume, so that the aspect of the crowd was anything but savage. It is true there were large proportions of brown humanity presented to view—such as arms, legs, necks, and chests, but these were picturesquely interspersed with striped cotton drawers, duck trousers, gay guernseys, red and blue flannel petticoats, numerous caps and straw hats as well as a few coal-scuttles—though none of the latter could match that of Betsy Waroonga for size and tremulosity.
But there were other signs of civilisation there besides costume, for, in addition to the neat huts and gardens and whitewashed church, there was a sound issuing from the pointed spire which was anything but suggestive of the South sea savage. It was the church bell—a small one, to be sure, but sweetly toned—which was being rung violently to call in all the fighting men from the woods and fields around, for at that time the Ratingans had to be prepared for the reception of foes as well as friends.
A trusty chief had been placed in charge of the village by Tomeo before he left. This man now disposed his warriors in commanding positions as they came trooping in, obedient to the call, and bade them keep out of sight and watch his signals from the beach.
But now let us see what vessel it was that caused such commotion in Ratinga.
She was a brig, with nothing particularly striking in her rig or appointments—a mere trading vessel. But on her bulwarks at the bow and on the heel of the bowsprit was gathered a group that well deserves notice, for there, foremost of all, and towering above the others, stood Antonio Zeppa, holding on to a forestay, and gazing with intensity and fixedness at the speck of land which had just been sighted. Beside him, and not less absorbed, stood his valiant and amiable son; while around, in various attitudes, sat or stood the chiefs Tomeo and Buttchee, Rosco and Ebony, Ongoloo and Wapoota, and little Lippy with her mother!
But the native missionary was not there. He had positively refused to quit the desert which had so unexpectedly and suddenly begun to blossom as the rose, and had remained to water the ground until his friends should send for him.
The chief and prime minister of the Mountain-men were there because, being large-minded, they wished to travel and see the world; and Lippy was there because Zeppa liked her; while the mother was there because she liked Lippy and refused to be parted from her.
Great was the change which had come over Zeppa during his convalescence. The wild locks and beard had been cut and trimmed; the ragged garments had been replaced by a suit belonging to Orley, and the air of wild despair, alternating with vacant simplicity, which characterised him in his days of madness, had given place to the old, sedate, sweet look of gentle gravity. It is true the grey hairs had increased in number, and there was a look, or, rather, an effect, of suffering in the fine face which nothing could remove; but much of the muscular vigour and the erect gait had been regained during those months when he had been so carefully and untiringly nursed by his son on Sugar-loaf Island.
It was not so with the ex-pirate. Poor Rosco was a broken man. The shock to his frame from the partial burning and the subsequent amputation of his feet had been so great that a return to anything like vigour seemed out of the question. But there was that in the expression of his faded face, and in the light of his sunken eye, which carried home the conviction that the ruin of his body had been the saving of his soul.
“I cannot tell you, Orley, how thankful I am,” said Zeppa, “that this trader happened to touch at the island. As I grew stronger my anxiety to return home became more and more intense; and to say truth, I had begun to fear that Captain Fitzgerald had forgotten us altogether.”
“No fear of that, father. The captain is sure to keep his promise. He will either return, as he said, or send some vessel to look after us. What are you gazing at, Ebony?”
“De steepil, massa. Look!” cried the negro, his whole face quivering with excitement, and the whites of his eyes unusually obtrusive as he pointed to the ever-growing line of land on the horizon, “you see him?—glippering like fire!”
“I do see something glittering,” said Orlando, shading his eyes with his hand; “yes, it must be the steeple of the church, father. Look, it was not there when you left us. We’ll soon see the houses now.”
“Thank God!” murmured Zeppa, in a deep, tremulous voice.
“Can you see it, Rosco?” said Orley.
The pirate turned his eyes languidly in the direction pointed out.
“I see the land,” he said faintly, “and I join your father in thanking God for that—but—but it is not home to me.”
“Come, friend,” said Zeppa, laying his hand gently on the poor man’s shoulder, “say not so. It shall be home to you yet, please God. If He has blotted out the past in the cleansing blood of the Lamb, what is man that he should remember it? Cheer up, Rosco, you shall find a home and a welcome in Ratinga.”