A spark broke from it and flew into the night.

Then the doctor cast the torch into the sea.

The torch was extinguished:  all light disappeared.  Nothing left but the huge, unfathomable shadow.  It was like the filling up of the grave.

In the darkness the doctor was heard saying,—­

“Let us pray.”

All knelt down.

It was no longer on the snow, but in the water, that they knelt.

They had but a few minutes more.

The doctor alone remained standing.

The flakes of snow falling on him had sprinkled him with white tears, and made him visible on the background of darkness.  He might have been the speaking statue of the shadow.

The doctor made the sign of the cross and raised his voice, while beneath his feet he felt that almost imperceptible oscillation which prefaces the moment in which a wreck is about to founder.  He said,—­

“Pater noster qui es in coelis.”

The Provencal repeated in French,—­

“Notre Pere qui etes aux cieux.”

The Irishwoman repeated in Gaelic, understood by the Basque woman,—­

“Ar nathair ata ar neamh.”

The doctor continued,—­

“Sanctificetur nomen tuum.”

“Que votre nom soit sanctifie,” said the Provencal.

“Naomhthar hainm,” said the Irishwoman.

“Adveniat regnum tuum,” continued the doctor.

“Que votre regne arrive,” said the Provencal.

“Tigeadh do rioghachd,” said the Irishwoman.

As they knelt, the waters had risen to their shoulders.  The doctor went on,—­

“Fiat voluntas tua.”

“Que votre volonte soit faite,” stammered the Provencal.

And the Irishwoman and Basque woman cried,—­

“Deuntar do thoil ar an Hhalamb.”

“Sicut in coelo, sicut in terra,” said the doctor.

No voice answered him.

He looked down.  All their heads were under water.  They had let themselves be drowned on their knees.

The doctor took in his right hand the flask which he had placed on the companion, and raised it above his head.

The wreck was going down.  As he sank, the doctor murmured the rest of the prayer.

For an instant his shoulders were above water, then his head, then nothing remained but his arm holding up the flask, as if he were showing it to the Infinite.

His arm disappeared; there was no greater fold on the deep sea than there would have been on a tun of oil.  The snow continued falling.

One thing floated, and was carried by the waves into the darkness.  It was the tarred flask, kept afloat by its osier cover.

BOOK THE THIRD.

THE CHILD IN THE SHADOW.

CHAPTER I.

CHESIL.

The storm was no less severe on land than on sea.  The same wild enfranchisement of the elements had taken place around the abandoned child.  The weak and innocent become their sport in the expenditure of the unreasoning rage of their blind forces.  Shadows discern not, and things inanimate have not the clemency they are supposed to possess.