The old man clutched at the coaming that ran around the hatchway, steadied himself, and gazed around upon the fog.

“’Eavenly Father!” he said aloud and reproachfully, “this won’t do!”

And with that he came tripping forward to the bridge with a walk like a bird’s.  At the sight of Tilda and Arthur Miles, who in their plight had made no effort to hide, he drew himself up suddenly.

“Stowaways?” he said.  “I’ll talk to you presently.”  He stepped over the engineer.  “Heh?  What’s the matter?” he called up as he put his foot on the ladder.

“Mate’s drunk an’ ’ncapable, sir,” answered the seaman from above.

“What o’ that?” was the unexpected reply.  “Let the poor body lie, an’ you hold her to her course.”

“But she’s chasin’ ‘er tail, sir.  She’s pointin’ near as possible due south at this moment, an’ no tellin’ ’ow long it’s lasted—­”

“Then bring her round to west—­west an’ a point south, an’ hold her to it.  You’ve got no Faith, Samuel Lloyd,—­an’ me wrestlin’ with the Lord for you this three hours.  See yonder!”—­the skipper waved a hand towards the bows, and his voice rose to a note of triumph.

Sure enough, during the last two or three minutes the appearance of the fog had changed.  It was dense still, but yellower in colour and even faintly luminous.

From the bridge came no answer.

“Liftin’, that’s what it is, an’ I ask the Lord’s pardon for lettin’ myself be disturbed by ye.”

The skipper turned to leave the ladder, of which he had climbed but half a dozen steps.

“Liftin’ it may be “—­Lloyd’s voice arrested him—­“but we’re ashore somewheres, or close upon it.  I can ’ear breakers—­”

“Eh?”

“Listen!”

The skipper listened, all listened, the fog the while growing steadily more golden and luminous.

“Man, that’s no sound of breakers—­it’s voices!”

“Voices!”

“Voices—­voices of singin’.  Ah!”—­the skipper caught suddenly at the rail again—­“a revelation!  Hark!”

He was right.  Far and faint ahead of the steamer’s bows, where the fog, meeting the sun’s rays, slowly arched itself into a splendid halo—­ a solid wall no longer, but a doorway for the light, and hung with curtains that momentarily wore thinner—­there, where the water began to take a tinge of flame, sounded the voices of men and women, or of angels, singing together.  And while the crew of the Evan Evans strained their ears the hymn grew audible—­

    ’Nearer—­and nearer still,
       We to our country come;
     To that celestial Hill,
       The weary pilgrim’s home! . . .’

Arthur Miles had clutched Tilda’s hand.  She herself gazed and listened, awe-struck.  The sound of oars mingled now with the voices, and out of the glory ahead three forms emerged and took shape—­three boats moving in solemn procession.