"Can't you let the min spake for theirselves?" said Jem Deady, who assumed at once the office of Master of Ceremonies. "Bring these fellows for'ard, and let them tell the priest." They were brought forward, the four fishermen, but were not too well able to sustain conversation, much less to detail a thrilling narrative of events; for the poor fellows had been filled up to the epiglottis with whiskey, and were in momentary peril of asphyxia. By piecing and patching their ejaculations together, however, it was ascertained that the "Star of the Sea" had a glorious run to the fishing-fleet, was welcomed cheerily by the Manx boats, and even more enthusiastically by the Cherbourg fleet; had made all arrangements for the sale of her fish; and then, with renewed vigor, was making for home. The haze that had hung over the sea all the morning had deepened, however, into a thick fog; and one wary old fisherman had ventured to warn Campion that he had too much way on, and to keep a good lookout. He laughed at the notion of their meeting any vessel in those desolate waters, and had freed the helm for a moment whilst he lit a cigar, when just then there was a shout, and a large steamer loomed out of the fog, running at right angles with the fishing-craft. Screams of warning came from the steamer, her fog-whistle was sounded, but Campion took it coolly. "He thought it was the wather-witch, the 'Halcyonia,' he had, your reverence, and she swung to the touch of a baby's finger." But the heavy craft was not so obedient, and Campion's attempt to show his seamanship was disastrous. He ran right under the steamer's nose, and had just almost cleared her when her prow struck the boat, six or eight feet from the stern, sheared off her helm and steering apparatus as if cut with a knife, and struck Campion as he fell. Then in a moment the boat filled and careened over, throwing her crew into the sea. The four fishermen were saved, two by clinging to the suspended anchors of the steamer, two by ropes flung from the deck. Campion went down. "The last we saw of him was his black head bobbing in the wather; and, faith, it wasn't his prayers he was sayin'." Here, indeed, was the dread descent of the sword on Damocles. And all looked to Father Letheby to know what he would say. He received the dread intelligence, which foreboded ruin to himself and others, like a man, and merely turned to the expectant crowd and said:-- "Get these poor fellows home as soon as possible. Their clothes are dripping wet, and they'll catch their death of cold." True, indeed, there were little pools of water in the hall where the shipwrecked fishermen were standing. As we turned to go in, whilst the crowd dispersed, Jem Deady took occasion to whisper:-- "Look here, your reverence, 't was all dhrink." Jem had kept his pledge for six weeks, and by virtue thereof assumed all the privileges of a reformer.