Mona dropped to her knees beside Christian, and kissed him tenderly. Danny stood apart in silence, and amid all that throng saw Mona alone. Then he turned his head aside and looked away over the sea. Only Heaven knew what his thoughts were in that bitter hour--that blessed hour--that hour of sorrow and of glory. In this world his days were done. For Kisseck's death, what remained to him among men? Without Mona's love, what was left to him on earth? Christian returned to consciousness. Mona rose up and took Danny's hand. She would have put her arms around his neck, but he drew away, and turned his eyes again toward the sea. The longing look came back, but no tear would start, for the gift of tears had gone forever. The hum of human voices arose above them. "Poor lad, and his uncle dead too." "Kisseck?" "Aw, yes, Kisseck." "No." "Yes, though--and shot, they're saying'." "Never." "Who shot him?" "There's no one knowing that." A loud, unearthly peal of laughter was heard above the noise of the people and the tumult of the storm. Every one turned to look for Danny. He had gone. The next moment he was seen at the water's edge pushing off the dingy of the lugger. He leaped into it and picked up an oar. But the ebbing tide needed no such help. It caught the boat and carried it away on a huge billow white with foam. In a minute it was riding far out into the dark void beyond. Then Mona remembered Danny's strange words two days ago, "I think at whiles I'd like to die in a big sea like that." Next day--Christmas Day--when the bleared sun was sinking over the western bar of the deep lone sea, and Danny's gorse fire on the cliff-head was smoldering out, a boat was washed ashore in the Poolvash--empty, capsized. It was the dingy of the "Ben-my-Chree." CHAPTER XXIII THREE YEARS AFTER One scene more. It was the morning of a summer's day. The sunshine danced bewitchingly over the sea, that lay drowsily under the wide vault of a blue sky. Lambent, languid, white, earth and air slept together. A soothing and dreamy haze rested on the little town of Peel. Brighter than the sunshine, fresher than the salt breath of the sea, a little girl of eight tripped over the paved and crabbed streets. In one hand she swung a straw-hat overflowing with flowers. By the other she held a fair-haired boy, who was just old enough to trot along at her side. The stout little man carried a mighty spade across one shoulder, and the hand that held the hand of his sister held also a bucket heavily laden with perhaps a teaspoonful of sand. At one moment the maiden, exercising the grave duties of a guardian, stopped, and volunteered to relieve the little chap of this burden; but, of course, he resented the humiliating tender with proper masculine dignity. Then they tripped on.