"My son, my son!" cried Mylrea Balladhoo. His knees failed him, and he sank to the floor. Tortured by suspense, bewildered, distracted, in an agony of doubt, he had jumped to the conclusion that this was Christian's blood, and that he had been murdered. No protest from Mona, no argument, no entreaty, prevailed to disturb that instant inference. "He is dead, he is dead!" he cried; "now is my heart smitten and withered like grass." Then, rising to his feet, and gazing through his poor blurred eyes into Mona's face with a look of reproach, "Young woman," he said, "why would you torture an old man with words of hope? Christian is dead. My son is dead. Dead? Can it be true? Yes, dead. Lord, Lord, now let me eat ashes for bread, and mingle my drink with weeping." And so he poured out his soul in a torrent of wild laments. Debts were as trifles to this. Disgrace was but as a dream to this dread reality. "Oh, my son, my son. Would to God I had died for thee. Oh, my son, my son!" Mona stood by, and saw the unassuageable grief shake him to the soul. Then she took his hand in silence, and together they stepped again into the night. Out of that chamber of death Mylrea went forth a shattered man. He would not return to Balladhoo. Side by side they tramped up and down the harbor quay the long night through. Up and down, up and down, through darkness and rain, and then under moonlight and the stars, until the day dawned and the cheerless sun rose over the sleeping town. Very pitiful was it to see how the old man's soul struggled with a vain effort to glean comfort from his faith. Every text that rose to his heart seemed to wound it afresh. "As arrows are in the hand of a mighty man, so are children of the youth.... They shall not be ashamed.... Oh, Absalom, my son, my son.... For thy sake I have borne reproach; shame hath covered my face.... I am poor and needy; make haste unto me, O God.... Hide not Thy face from Thy servant, for I am in trouble.... Set thine house in order.... Oh, God, Thou knowest my foolishness.... The waters have overwhelmed me, the streams have gone over my soul, the proud waters have gone over my soul." Thus hour after hour, tottering feebly at Mona's side, leaning sometimes on the girl's arm, the old man poured forth his grief. At one moment, as they stood by the ruined end of the pier, and Danny's gorse fire glowed red over the Lockjaw Creek, and the moon broke through a black rain-cloud over the town, the sorrowing man turned calmly to Mona and said, with a strange resignation: "I will be quiet. Christian is dead. Surely I shall quiet myself as a child that is weaned of its mother. Yes, my soul is even as a weaned child." Just then two of the police who had been on the cliff-head came up and spoke.