As her eye fell on her two visitors there was no gleam of defiance, no mark of anger, or even surprise; but, when Haco stood fully revealed before her, a flash of triumph and pleasure shot into it, kindling every feature with its glow.  “You here, Haco!” she cried, “and with her!  The Gods have relented.  You will hold her fast in their worship, and lead her steps to the land of her sires!  I die contented.”  She fell back exhausted.  “Sister,” said the giant, laying his hand softly on her shoulder, “it is too late; when Algar slew my loved one the Pagan died in me; I am a servant of the God of the Christians.”  Hilda awaited fearfully the result of this announcement, but she knew not the greatness of the old woman’s soul.  It was long ere her voice was heard again.  Presently, raising herself, she said, “I would it had been otherwise; but I have erred, I have misjudged.  I thought that your Gods were false; puny creations of a nerveless brain; but they are strong, I own their power!  It may be that the great ones of old have wearied of our spiritless race, and abandoned us.  So perchance you may be wise to turn to the new-comers!” Her voice failed her, but as they knelt by her side her hands wandered over their heads and lingered with a caressing movement among Hilda’s locks.  She seemed to have forgotten Jean, whom she doubtless believed to have been lost in the general calamity.  Suddenly she started up and pointed to a storm-cloud rising rapidly from the western horizon, assuming a succession of fantastic shapes as it passed upwards.  “Do you not see them?” she cried—­“the great, the glorious ones! they bend from their seats; they smile! see their power!  Their majesty! their locks stream, their swords are half drawn! they sheathe them, they lean forward, they extend their arms! they beckon!—­I come, I come!” She stretched out her arms with the old familiar gesture and sank back, having breathed her spirit to the tempest which she loved so well.

They buried her on the cliffs of Pleinmont, where a cairn long marked her resting-place.  Tita was taken to the Vale; all attempts to restore her from the shock which her nerves had received failed till on one sunny morning Hilda’s infant was placed on her knees:  when the child crowed, and smiled at her, the cloud imperceptibly passed away, never to return.  From that time she assumed her regular place in the household.

Haco abandoned his Lihou cell; his rough readiness of resource, unfailing good-humour, and skill in managing men, proved invaluable during the task of the restoration of the broken links of government and society.

The labours of Father Austin and his coadjutors did not relax, but their course lay in smoother waters:  if their prospects of martyrdom were diminished they were more than consoled by the knowledge that they possessed among them a veritable saint, to whom the Holy Virgin had vouchsafed the honour of a personal appearance, and that they had been witnesses of a miraculous interposition, the evidence of which would be indelible as long as the sea should wash the storm-beaten cliffs of their beloved island.