He spoke hurriedly. I saw he must have some reason for answering me so abruptly. He was talking to a young fellow whom I recognised as one of the most dissolute in the village; and just as I turned to go they walked away together. I sped home as fast as I could. It was easier to get along now that the moon shone. I found that Turner had given Connie a composing draught, and that he had good hopes she would at least be nothing the worse for the marvellous result of her excitement. She was asleep exhausted, and her mother was watching by her side. It, seemed strange that she could sleep; but Turner said it was the safest reaction, partly, however, occasioned by what he had given her. In her sleep she kept on talking about the ship. We hurried back to see if anything could be done for the woman. As we went up the side of the canal we perceived a dark body meeting us. The clouds had again obscured, though not quite hidden the moon, and we could not at first make out what it was. When we came nearer it showed itself a body of men hauling something along. Yes, it was the life-boat, afloat on the troubled waves of the canal, each man seated in his own place, his hands quiet upon his oar, his cork-jacket braced about him, his feet out before him, ready to pull the moment they should pass beyond the broken gates of the lock out on the awful tossing of the waves. They sat very silent, and the men on the path towed them swiftly along. The moon uncovered her face for a moment, and shone upon the faces of two of the rowers. “Percivale! Joe!” I cried. “All right, sir!” said Joe. “Does your wife know of it, Joe?” I almost gasped. “To be sure,” answered Joe. “It’s the first chance I’ve had of returning thanks for her. Please God, I shall see her again to-night.” “That’s good, Joe. Trust in God, my men, whether you sink or swim.” “Ay, ay, sir!” they answered as one man. “This is your doing, Percivale,” I said, turning and walking alongside of the boat for a little way. “It’s more Jim Allen’s,” said Percivale. “If I hadn’t got a hold of him I couldn’t have done anything.” “God bless you, Jim Allen!” I said. “You’ll be a better man after this, I think.” “Donnow, sir,” returned Jim cheerily. “It’s harder work than pulling an oar.” The captain himself was on board. Percivale having persuaded Jim Allen, the two had gone about in the crowd seeking proselytes. In a wonderfully short space they had found almost all the crew, each fresh one picking up another or more; till at length the captain, protesting against the folly of it, gave in, and once having yielded, was, like a true Englishman, as much in earnest as any of them. The places of two who were missing were supplied by Percivale and Joe, the latter of whom would listen to no remonstrance. “I’ve nothing to lose,” Percivale had said. “You have a young wife, Joe.”