Carthew and Wicks turned to each other.

“Perhaps you don’t know how tired we are,” said Carthew.

“The tide’s flowing!” cried the captain.  “You wouldn’t have me miss a rising tide?”

“O, gammon! there’s tides to-morrow!” retorted Tommy.

“And I’ll tell you what,” added Carthew, “the breeze is failing fast, and the sun will soon be down.  We may get into all kinds of fresh mess in the dark and with nothing but light airs.”

“I don’t deny it,” answered Wicks, and stood awhile as if in thought.  “But what I can’t make out,” he began again, with agitation, “what I can’t make out is what you’re made of!  To stay in this place is beyond me.  There’s the bloody sun going down—­and to stay here is beyond me!”

The others looked upon him with horrified surprise.  This fall of their chief pillar—­this irrational passion in the practical man, suddenly barred out of his true sphere, the sphere of action—­shocked and daunted them.  But it gave to another and unseen hearer the chance for which he had been waiting.  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 themselves forgiven the immediate author of their miseries, sounded like an absolution.

Tea was taken on deck in the time of the sunset, and not long after the five castaways—­castaways once more—­lay down to sleep.