Mac, on the striking of the brig, had crawled up the companion, and he now showed himself and spoke up.
“Captain Wicks,” said he, “it's me that brought this trouble on the lot of ye. I'm sorry for ut, I ask all your pardons, and if there's any one can say 'I forgive ye,' it'll make my soul the lighter.”
Wicks stared upon the man in amaze; then his self-control returned to him. “We're all in glass houses here,” he said; “we ain't going to turn to and throw stones. I forgive you, sure enough; and much good may it do you!”
The others spoke to the same purpose.
“I thank ye for ut, and 'tis done like gentlemen,” said Mac. “But there's another thing I have upon my mind. I hope we're all Prodestan's here?”
It appeared they were; it seemed a small thing for the Protestant religion to rejoice in!
“Well, that's as it should be,” continued Mac. “And why shouldn't we say the Lord's Prayer? There can't be no hurt in ut.”
He had the same quiet, pleading, childlike way with him as in the morning; and the others accepted his proposal, and knelt down without a word.
“Knale if ye like!” said he. “I'll stand.” And he covered his eyes.
So the prayer was said to the accompaniment of the surf and seabirds, and all rose refreshed and felt lightened of a load. Up to then, they had cherished their guilty memories in private, or only referred to them in the heat of a moment and fallen immediately silent. Now they had faced their remorse in company, and the worst seemed over. Nor was it only that. But the petition “Forgive us our trespasses,” falling in so apposite after they had them-
