With an ugly oath Sells knocked him down, and Ned sprang to his assistance, for mal-de-mer had left Ferguson too weak to defend himself, and Sells was beating him savagely. The crowding men round them, cursing all "Swaddling interferers", struck at the two Methodists, yelling the war cries of persecuted, bitter, Papist Ireland. Ferguson and Ned were only saved from serious injury by the prompt interference of the sergeants, who, however, told Ferguson that the next time he "preached" and caused a riot they would report him. His bruises, and anxiety as to Ferguson, kept the boy awake for some time that night. When he slept, at last, he was almost immediately awakened by a confusion of frightful sounds. The shriek of the winds and the pounding of the sea showed that "no small tempest was upon them." Frantic voices cried that a mast, or spar, had fallen, that the captain was killed, the boats were all swept away, and that the ship was sinking. Eight hundred fear-crazed men, with a score of women, all penned in the pitchy dark, under fastened hatches, screamed, cursed, and called on the saints, while the ship seemed to roll nearly over, and Ned shuddered as he clung to his hammock and tried to pray. Then through a lull in the tumult he heard a woman singing-- "Jesus, Lover of my soul, let me to Thy bosom fly, While the nearer waters roll, whilst the tempest still is high." "It's the Swaddler's wife," Ned heard Tim Kelly, an ignorant Irish giant, groan, "Sure, it's hitting him has brought this on us. A man that hits a woman or a priest never has no luck. Mary! save us all, we're going now. Boys, ask the Swaddler to pray. Sure, a heretic priest, if he's a good living man, is better than none, when it comes to dying." A hundred voices called to Ferguson, and men were silent, while between the roars of the wind the Methodist spoke, the perfect calmness of his voice reassuring the terrified people. Bit by bit he shouted the story of the Man who walked on the sea of Galilee, and who slept in its wildest storm, only waking at the prayer of His frightened companions, to still winds and waves with a word. "The "Lightfoot" weathered the storm--thanks to Ferguson's prayers, Kelly and his mates believed, and they treated him with the rough respect which the south Irishman, lovable and unreasonable, superstitious and chivalrous, gives to his women and priests. They tried not to swear in his presence, and took his reproofs meekly when they forgot themselves. Sells and the few like him who were really thorough blackguards dared not say a word. "You see, Ned," said Ferguson, "how God can change the lion into a lamb, and cause enemies to become friends." Ned smiled, thinking--"The old Greeks were right when they said the gods help those who help themselves."