the more distressing when he perceived also that their oars in pulling together made no noise.  The stranger, assuming the helm, guided the boat on quietly, while the fog, settling over the face of the water and closing around them, seemed to interpose a muffled wall between themselves and the rude jarring of the outer world.  As they pushed further into this penetralia, the Padre listened anxiously for the sound of creaking blocks and the rattling of cordage, but no vibration broke the veiled stillness or disturbed the warm breath of the fleecy fog.  Only one incident occurred to break the monotony of their mysterious journey.  A one-eyed rower, who sat in front of the Padre, catching the devout father’s eye, immediately grinned such a ghastly smile, and winked his remaining eye with such diabolical intensity of meaning that the Padre was constrained to utter a pious ejaculation, which had the disastrous effect of causing the marine Cocles to “catch a crab,” throwing his heels in the air and his head into the bottom of the boat.  But even this accident did not disturb the gravity of the rest of the ghastly boat’s crew.

When, as it seemed to the Padre, ten minutes had elapsed, the outline of a large ship loomed up directly across their bow.  Before he could utter the cry of warning that rose to his lips, or brace himself against the expected shock, the boat passed gently and noiselessly through the sides of the vessel, and the holy man found himself standing on the berth deck of what seemed to be an ancient caravel.  The boat and boat’s crew had vanished.  Only his mysterious friend, the stranger, remained.  By the light of a swinging lamp the Padre beheld him standing beside a hammock, whereon, apparently, lay the dying man to whom he had been so mysteriously summoned.  As the Padre, in obedience to a sign from his companion, stepped to the side of the sufferer, he feebly opened his eyes and thus addressed him:—­

“Thou seest before thee, reverend father, a helpless mortal, struggling not only with the last agonies of the flesh, but beaten down and tossed with sore anguish of the spirit.  It matters little when or how I became what thou now seest me.  Enough that my life has been ungodly and sinful, and that my only hope of absolution lies in my imparting to thee a secret which is of vast importance to the holy Church, and affects greatly her power, wealth, and dominion on these shores.  But the terms of this secret and the conditions of my absolution are peculiar.  I have but five minutes to live.  In that time I must receive the extreme unction of the Church.”

“And thy secret?” said the holy father.

“Shall be told afterwards,” answered the dying man.  “Come, my time is short.  Shrive me quickly.”

The Padre hesitated.  “Couldst thou not tell this secret first?”

“Impossible!” said the dying man, with what seemed to the Padre a momentary gleam of triumph.  Then, as his breath grew feebler, he called impatiently, “Shrive me! shrive me!”