Oh, safe upon the waveless blue reason fell prostrate, abashed; and the heart of Christian, enfranchised, leapt high in exultation, so that with laughter, and glad praise, and proud and happy calls of farewell, he set sail for home and was carried away from the Isle Sinister. CHAPTER IV Though day was high, Lois, the mother adoptive of Christian the Alien, sat in shadow, for her small lattice was nearly blinded by the spread of vivid fig-leaves jealous for the sun. Flawless order reigned in the simple habitation. No sign of want was there, but comforts were few, and of touch or tint for mere pleasure there was none. Over an opened Bible bent a face worn more by care than time. Never a page was turned; the hands held the edges, quiet, but a little tense. For an hour deliberate calm held. Then the soft, quick pat of bare feet running caused a slight grip and quiver. The door swung wide, not ungently, before Christian flushed and breathless, and a flash of broad day framed with him. He peered within with eager, anxious eyes, yet a diffident conscience made him falter. 'What have I done? Oh, mother!' So frail she seemed to his large embrace. In his hand hers he felt ever so slightly tremble. He knelt beside her, love and reverence big in his heart. 'Why should you trouble so?' he said. She laid her hands on his head for pardon. 'Christian,' she said, 'were you in peril last night?' 'Yes.' She waited for more to follow, vainly. 'What was it? Where have you been? What have you done?' 'Mother, you were praying for me!' 'Answer, Christian.' 'I gave a promise. I thought I owed it--yes, I think so,' he said, perturbed, and looked in her eyes for exoneration. There he read intelligence on a wrong tack that his honesty would not suffer. 'No, mother, it was not on a venture--I have come back empty-handed. I mean not such a venture as you think,' he corrected, for among the fishers the word had a special significance, as will show hereafter. 'Say at least,' said Lois, 'you have done nothing amiss--nothing you would be ashamed to tell me.' 'But I have,' he confessed, reddening, 'done amiss--without being greatly ashamed--before.' His heart sank through a pause, and still lower at his mother's question, spoken very low. 'Then I am to know that though I should question, you would refuse an answer to me?' He could not bear to utter the word till she insisted. Her face twitched painfully; she put him back, rose, and went pacing to and fro. Helplessly he stood and watched her strange distress, till she turned to him again. 'My boy--no--you can be a boy no more; this day I must see you are a man. Listen, Christian: I knew this day must come--though it seems oversoon to me--and I was resolved that so soon as you should refuse any confession to me, I--I--must make confession to you.' She silenced his pained protest, and went on.