"Rest easy, bide at peace, dear sawl." "'Tis the Lard's doin', mother; an'
the lil bwoy's better off now." "Take it calm, my poor good creature." "Try
an' bring tears to your eyes, theer's a dear wummon."
Tears finally came to her relief, and she wept and moaned while friends
supported her, looking with wonder upon Michael, her husband. He stood
aloof with the men about him. But never a word he spoke to his wife or any
other. His eyes dilated and had lost their steady forward glance, though a
mad misery lighted them with flashes that came and went; his face was a
very burrow of time, seared and trenched with pits and wrinkles. His hat
was gone, his hair blew wild, the strong set of his mouth had vanished; his
head, usually held so high, hung forward on a shrunken neck.
The brothers Pritchard told their story as a party conducted Thomasin back
to her home. For the moment Gray Michael stood irresolute and alone, save
for his dog, which ran round him.
"Us was tackin' when it fust began to blaw, an' all bustlin' 'bout in the
dark, when the mainsail went lerrickin' 'cross an' knocked the poor dam
bwoy owerboard into as ugly a rage o' water as ever I seed. Tom had his
sea-boots on, an' every sawl 'pon the bwoat knawed 'twas all up as soon as
we lost en. We shawed a light an' tumbled 'bout for quarter o' an hour wi'
the weather gettin' wicked. Then comed a scat as mighty near thrawed us
'pon our beam-ends, an' took the mizzen 'long wi' it.
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