'Sing to the Lard, ye that gaw down to the
sea.' An' I'll sing--trust me for that, but I must eat fust. I speaks to
you, Billy, 'cause you be wan o' God's chosen fools."
He stopped abruptly, pressed his hand over his forehead, said something
about breaking the news to his wife, and then walked slowly down the quay.
The manner of his locomotion had wholly changed, and he moved like one
whose life was a failure.
Meantime Jago, full of the great discovery, hastened to the Pritchards and
other men who were now following Gray Michael at a distance. Them be told
that the fisherman had taken leave of his senses, that he had actually
called Billy himself one of God's chosen fools.
Several more boats had come in, and as it was certainly known that some had
taken refuge at Scilly, those vitally interested in the few remaining
vessels withdrew from the quay comforting each other and putting a hopeful
face on the position. Gray Michael followed his wife home. As yet she had
not learned of his state; but, although his conduct on returning was
somewhat singular, no word which fell now from him spoke clearly of a
disordered mind. He clamored first for food, and, while he ate, gave a
clear if callous account of his son's death and the lugger's danger. Having
eaten, he went to his bedroom, dragged off his boots, flung himself down
and was soon sleeping heavily; while Thomasin, marveling at his stolidity
and resenting it not a little, gave way to utter grief.
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