“You asked me how I ‘dared’ to speak to you about your duty.  I reply—­By the force of truth and the power of the pen I dare!—­and I shall be ready to answer to God for it, as you must answer to him for leaving any part of your duty undone.

“Aubrey Leigh.”

And the day passed on, half in drifting clouds, half in glimpses of sunshine, till late afternoon, when the sky cleared altogether, and the waves sank to a dead calm;—­and with the night a shield-like moon, all glistening pearl and silver, rose up out of the east with a royal air of white and wondering innocence, as though she proclaimed her entire blamelessness for any havoc wrought by storm.  And in the full radiance of that silvery splendour Aubrey Leigh, leaning against the sea-weed covered capstan of the quay, round which coils of wet rope glistened like the body of a sleeping serpent, told to an audience of human hearers for the first time the story of his life, and adventures, and the varied experiences he had gone through in order to arrive at some straight and clear comprehension of “the Way, the Truth, and the Life” of the Gospel of Love and Mutual Labour.  His practised voice, perfect in all modulation, inflexion, and expression, carried each simple, well-chosen word home to the hearts of his hearers,—­not one so ignorant as not to understand him—­not one so blind as not to see the beauty of work and creative effort as he depicted them,—­not one so insensate as not to feel the calm, the grandeur, and repose of the strong soul of a man in complete sympathy with his fellow-men.  They listened to him almost breathlessly—­their bronzed weather-beaten faces all turned towards his; forgetting to smoke, they let their pipes die out and drop from their hands—­and no interruption broke the even flow and cadence of his earnest language, save the slow ripple of the water beating against the quay, and the faint, occasional sigh of a stirring wind.  Silhouetted black against the radiant sky were the masts of the fishing fleet, and the roofs of the fishermen’s cottages—­dwellings so often made desolate by death--and as Aubrey noted the fascinated attention with which these rough men heard him, his heart grew strong.  “If a few listen, so will many,” he said to himself, “The Master of our creed first taught His divine ethics to a few fishermen,—­to them the message was first given . . . and by them again delivered,—­and it is through our having departed from the original simplicity of utterance that all the evil has crept in.  So let me be content with this night’s work and await the future with patience.”  Then lifting up his voice once more he said,—­