Once safely out, the vessel hove to to drop the pilot. Leaning
over the gunwale Mahony watched a boat come alongside, the man of
oilskins climb down the rope-ladder and row away.
Here, in the open, a heavy swell was running, but he kept his foot on
the swaying boards long after the last of his fellow-passengers had
vanished--a tall, thin figure, with an eager, pointed face, and hair
just greying at the temples. Contrary to habit, he had a word for every
one who passed, from mate to cabin-boy, and he drank a glass of wine
with the Captain in his cabin. Their start had been auspicious, said the
latter; seldom had he had such a fair wind to come out with.
Then the sun fell into the sea and it was night--a fine, starry night,
clear with the hard, cold radiance of the south. Mahony looked up at the
familiar constellations and thought of those others, long missed, that
he was soon to see again.--Over! This page of his history was turned
and done with; and he had every reason to feel thankful. For many and
many a man, though escaping with his life, had left youth and health and
hope on these difficult shores. He had got off scot-free. Still in his
prime, his faculties green, his zest for living unimpaired, he was
heading for the dear old mother country--for home. Alone and unaided he
could never have accomplished it. Strength to will the enterprise,
steadfastness in the face of obstacles had been lent him from above. And
as he stood gazing down into the black and fathomless deep, which sent
crafty, licking tongues up the vessel's side, he freely acknowledged his
debt, gave honour where honour was due.
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