And as he walked he began to reproach himself for the mistrust whereby he had been so sorely shaken. This comforted him somewhat, and he stepped out more boldly. He was telling himself that, perplexing though the facts might be, they were yet so inconclusive as to prove nothing except that Ewan was dead, when all at once he became conscious that in the road ahead of him, grouped about the gate of Ballamona, were a company of women and children, all agitated and some weeping, with the coroner in their midst, questioning them. The coroner was Quayle the Gyke, the same who would have been left penniless by his father but for the Bishop's intervention. "And when did your husband go out to sea?" the coroner asked. "At floodtide yesterday," answered one of the women; "and my man, he said to me, 'Liza,' he said, 'get me a bite of priddhas and salt herrin's for supper,' he said; 'we'll be back for twelve,' he said; but never a sight of him yet, and me up all night till daylight." "But they've been in and gone out to sea again," said another of the women. "How d'ye know that, Mother Quilleash?" asked the coroner. "Because I've been taking a slieu round to the creek, and there's a basket of ray and cod in the shed," the woman answered. At that the Bishop drew up at the gate, and the coroner explained to him the trouble of the women and children. "Is it you, Mrs. Corkell?" the Bishop asked of a woman near him. "Aw, yes, my lord." "And you, too, Mrs. Teare?" The woman courtesied; the Bishop named them one by one, and stroked the bare head of the little girl who was clinging to her mother's cloak and weeping. "Then it's the 'Ben-my-Chree' that has been missing since yesterday at high-water?" the Bishop said, in a sort of hushed whisper. "Yes, sure, my lord." At that the Bishop turned suddenly aside, without a word more, opened the gate, and walked up the path. "Oh, my son, my son," he cried, in his bleeding heart, "how have you shortened my days! How have you clothed me with shame! Oh, my son, my son!"