Stanistreet felt almost shocked for a moment, contrasting the vision of the distraught man of yesterday with the figure before him; but a weight was taken from his mind and the next moment, impulsively, his hand went out to grip the hand of the other.
“We are still keeping south?” said Lestrange.
“Yes,” said the captain. “I carried on. I thought it best, but what’s your wishes in the matter?”
“South,” said Lestrange. “Come up on deck, I want to talk to you.”
Stanistreet followed, wondering what was to happen next. There was a contained vivacity in the voice and manner of the other that, to the logical and matter-of-fact mind of the sailor, seemed a portent of troubles to come.
He followed closely, and when Lestrange walked to the port rail and stood with his hands upon it fronting the blazing east, the captain of the _Ranatonga_ came and stood beside him, elbow touching elbow, and ready for any emergency. But his mind was soon put at rest. Lestrange, quite calm and cheerful in manner, stood contemplating the splendour before him and breathing in the fresh sea air with evident delight.
Then he turned and glanced along the deck to where Peterson, one of the hands, had succeeded Bowers at the wheel.
“Good,” said Lestrange. He turned again to the rail. A land gull passed them flying topmast high, drifted a bit on the wind, lit on the water and rose again, making north.
Lestrange watched it for a moment. Then he spoke.
“Stanistreet, I said down below I had something to tell you. It’s difficult, and I would not say it to any other man. It’s just this. I am happy—for the first time in twelve years I am happy.”
“That sounds strange, does it not?” went on the other; “and maybe you will think my mind has been unhinged by all that has occurred, especially when you hear me out. It has not, and I will just tell you why I am happy. Happy! that is no name for it. I am joyful, jubilant, praising God, who knows all things and does all things right! You believe in God, Stanistreet?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the sailor, not at all happy at the turn things were taking. “I believe in God; ought to, anyway, seeing what I’ve seen.”
“Well, then, listen,” said the other. “For twelve long years, as you know, I sought for the children I loved, always sure that they were alive, always uncertain as to their fate. It is the uncertainty that kills. I suppose I am more imaginative than most people. I conjured up visions of them falling into the hands of Chinese, falling into the hands of the ruffians that infest these seas, finding sin and misery as their portion in life; but worse than that were the things I could not conjure up. There were times when I said to myself, ‘There is surely no God,’ but always I was driven back to prayer, which was my only hope. I prayed that I might meet the children again. I prayed and prayed, and searched and sought, and yesterday my prayer was granted.