Before sunset that afternoon the San Jose was anchored behind the point by the inlet. The fishing boats changed moorings and moved farther up, for not a single one of their owners would trust himself within a hundred yards of the stricken brigantine. As soon as the anchors were dropped, the volunteer crew was over side and away, each of its members to receive a scolding from his family for taking such a risk and to have his garments sulphur-smoked or buried. Charlie Burgess, whose wife was something of a Tartar, observed ruefully that he “didn't take no comfort 'round home nowadays; between the smell of brimstone and the jawin's 'twas the hereafter ahead of time.”

The largest of the beach shanties, one which stood by itself a quarter of a mile from the light, was hurriedly prepared for use as a pesthouse and the sick sailor was carried there on an improvised stretcher. Dr. Parker and Ellery lifted him from his berth and, assisted by old Ebenezer Capen, got him up to the deck and lowered him into the dory. Ebenezer rowed the trio to the beach and the rest of the journey was comparatively easy.

The shanty had three rooms, one of which was given up to the patient, one used as a living room, and, in the third, Capen and the minister were to sleep. Mattresses were procured, kind-hearted and sympathizing townspeople donated cast-off tables and chairs, and the building was made as comfortable as it could be, under the circumstances. Sign boards, warning strangers to keep away, were erected, and in addition to them, the Trumet selectmen ordered ropes stretched across the lane on both sides of the shanty. But ropes and signs were superfluous. Trumet in general was in a blue funk and had no desire to approach within a mile of the locality. Even the driver of the grocery cart, when he left the day's supply of provisions, pushed the packages under the ropes, yelled a hurried “Here you be!” and, whipping up his horse, departed at a rattling gallop.

The village sat up nights to discuss the affair and every day brought a new sensation. The survivors of the San Jose's crew, a wretched, panic-stricken quartette of mulattos and Portuguese, were apprehended on the outskirts of Denboro, the town below Trumet on the bay side, and were promptly sequestered and fumigated, pending shipment to the hospital at Boston. Their story was short but grewsome. The brigantine was not a Turks Islands boat, but a coaster from Jamaica. She had sailed with a small cargo for Savannah. Two days out and the smallpox made its appearance on board. The sufferer, a negro foremast hand, died. Then another sailor was seized and also died. The skipper, who was the owner, was the next victim, and the vessel was in a state of demoralization which the mate, an Englishman named Bradford, could not overcome. Then followed days and nights of calm and terrible heat, of pestilence and all but mutiny. The mate himself died. There was no one left who understood navigation. At last came a southeast gale and the San Jose drove before it. Fair weather found her abreast the Cape. The survivors ran her in after dark, anchored, and reached shore in the longboat. The sick man whom they had left in the forecastle was a new hand who had shipped at Kingston. His name was Murphy, they believed. They had left him because he was sure to die, like the others, and, besides, they knew some one would see the distress signals and investigate. That was all, yes. Santa Maria! was it not enough?

This tale was a delicious tidbit for Didama and the “daily advertisers,” but, after all, it was a mere side dish compared to Mr. Ellery's astonishing behavior. That he, the minister of the Regular church, should risk his life, risk dying of the smallpox, to help a stranger and a common sailor, was incomprehensible. Didama, at least, could not understand it, and said so. “My soul and body!” she exclaimed, with uplifted hands. “I wouldn't go nigh my own grandfather if he had the smallpox, let alone settin' up with a strange critter that I didn't know from Adam's cat. And a minister doin' it! He ought to consider the congregation, if he done nothin' else. Ain't we more important than a common water rat that, even when he's dyin', swears, so I hear tell, like a ship's poll parrot? I never heard of such foolishness. It beats ME!”

It “beat” a good many who, like the Widow Rogers, could not understand self-sacrifice. But there were more, and they the majority of Trumet's intelligent people, who understood and appreciated. Dr. Parker, a man with a reputation for dangerously liberal views concerning religious matters and an infrequent attendant at church, was enthusiastic and prodigal of praise.

“By George!” vowed the doctor. “That's MY kind of Christianity. That's the kind of parson I can tie to. I'm for John Ellery after this, first, last, and all the time. And if he don't get the smallpox and die, and if he does live to preach in the Regular church, you'll see me in one of the front pews every Sunday. That's what I think of him. Everybody else ran away and I don't blame 'em much. But he stayed. Yes, sir, by George! he stayed. 'Somebody had to do it,' says he. I take off my hat to that young fellow.”

Captain Zeb Mayo went about cheering for his parson. Mrs. Mayo cooked delicacies to be pushed under the ropes for the minister's consumption. The parish committee, at a special session, voted an increase of salary and ordered a weekly service of prayer for the safe delivery of their young leader from danger. Even Captain Elkanah did not try to oppose the general opinion; “although I cannot but feel,” he said, “that Mr. Ellery's course was rash and that he should have considered us and our interest in his welfare before—”

“Dum it all!” roared Captain Zeb, jumping to his feet and interrupting, “he didn't consider himself, did he? and ain't he as important TO himself as you, Elkanah Daniels, or anybody else in this meetin' house? Bah! don't let's have no more talk like that or I'll say somethin' that won't be fit to put in the minutes.”

Even at Come-Outers' meeting, when Ezekiel Bassett hinted at a “just punishment fallin' on the head of the leader of the Pharisees,” Thoph Black rose and defended Ellery.

Keziah Coffin was, perhaps, the one person most disturbed by her parson's heroism. She would have gone to the shanty immediately had not Dr. Parker prevented. Even as it was, she did go as far as the ropes, but there she was warded off by Ebenezer until Ellery came running out and bade her come no nearer.

“But you shan't stay here, Mr. Ellery,” vowed Keziah. “Or, if you do, I'll stay, too. I ain't afraid of smallpox.”

“I am,” confessed the minister, “and I'm not going to let anyone I care for expose themselves to it unnecessarily. If you try to come in here I shall”—he smiled—“well, Capen and I will put you off the premises by force. There!”

Keziah smiled, too, in spite of herself. “Maybe you'd have your hands full,” she said. “O John, what in the world made you do this thing? It's dreadful. I shan't sleep a wink, thinkin' of you. I just must come here and help.”

“No, you mustn't. You can come as far as the—the dead line once in a while, if Captain Mayo will drive you over, but that's all. I'm all right. Don't worry about me. I'm feeling tiptop and I'm not going to be sick. Now go home and make me some of that—some of those puddings of yours. We can use them to advantage, can't we, Capen?”

“Bet yer!” replied Ebenezer with enthusiasm. Keziah, after more expostulation, went back to the parsonage, where the puddings were made and seasoned with tears and fervent prayers. She wrote to Grace and told her the news of the San Jose, but she said nothing of the minister's part in it. “Poor thing!” sighed Keziah, “she's bearin' enough already. Her back ain't as strong as mine, maybe, and mine's most crackin'. Well, let it crack for good and all; I don't know but that's the easiest way out.”

The sick sailor grew no better. Days and nights passed and he raved and moaned or lay in a stupor. Ebenezer acted as day nurse while Ellery slept, and, at night, the minister, being younger, went on watch. The doctor came frequently, but said there was no hope. A question of time only, and a short time, he said.

Capen occupied his mind with speculations concerning the patient.

“Do you know, parson,” he said, “seem's if I'd seen the feller somewheres afore. 'Course I never have, but when I used to go whalin' v'yages I cruised from one end of creation to t'other, pretty nigh, and I MIGHT have met him. However, his own folks wouldn't know him now, would they? so I cal'late I'm just gettin' foolish in my old age. Said his name's Murphy, them ha'f-breeds did, didn't they? I know better'n that.”

“How do you know?” asked Ellery, idly listening.

“'Cause when he's floppin' round on the bed, out of his head, he sings out all kinds of stuff. A good deal of it's plain cussin', but there's times when he talks respectable and once I heard him say 'darn' and another time 'I cal'late.' Now no Irishman says THAT. That's Yankee, that is.”

“Well, he ought to know his own name.”

“Prob'ly he does—or used to—but 'most likely he don't want nobody else to know it. That's why he said 'twas Murphy and, bein' as he DID say it, I know 'tain't it. See my argument, don't you, Mr. Ellery?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“Um—hm! Why, land sakes, names don't mean nothin' with seafarin' men. I've seen the time when I had more names—Humph! Looks kind of squally off to the east'ard, don't it?”

That night the sick man was much worse. His ravings were incessant. The minister, sitting in his chair in the living room, by the cook stove, could hear the steady stream of shouts, oaths, and muttered fragments of dialogue with imaginary persons. Sympathy for the sufferer he felt, of course, and yet he, as well as Dr. Parker and old Capen, had heard enough to realize that the world would be none the worse for losing this particular specimen of humanity. The fellow had undoubtedly lived a hard life, among the roughest of companions afloat and ashore. Even Ebenezer, who by his own confession, was far from being a saint, exclaimed disgustedly at the close of a day's watching by the sick bed: “Phew! I feel's if I'd been visiting state's prison. Let me set out doors a spell and listen to the surf. It's clean, anyhow, and that critter's talk makes me want to give my brains a bath.”

The wooden clock, loaned by Mrs. Parker, the doctor's wife, ticked steadily, although a half hour slow. Ellery, glancing at it to see if the time had come for giving medicine, suddenly noticed how loud its ticking sounded. Wondering at this, he was aware there was no other sound in the house. He rose and looked in at the door of the adjoining room. The patient had ceased to rave and was lying quiet on the bed.

The minister tiptoed over to look at him. And, as he did so, the man opened his eyes.

“Halloo!” he said faintly. “Who are you?”

Ellery, startled, made no answer.

“Who are you?” demanded the man again. Then, with an oath, he repeated the question, adding: “What place is this? This ain't the fo'castle. Where am I?”

“You're ashore. You've been sick. Don't try to move.”

“Sick? Humph! Sick? 'Course I been sick. Don't I know it? The d—n cowards run off and left me; blast their eyes! I'll fix 'em for it one of these days, you hear—”

“Sshh!”

“Hush up yourself. Where am I?”

“You're ashore. On Cape Cod. At Trumet.”

“Trumet! TRUMET!”

He was struggling to raise himself on his elbow. Ellery was obliged to use force to hold him down.

“Hush! hush!” pleaded the minister, “you mustn't try to—”

“Trumet! I ain't. You're lyin'. Trumet! Good God! Who brought me here? Did she—Is she—”

He struggled again. Then his strength and his reason left him simultaneously and the delirium returned. He began to shout a name, a name that caused Ellery to stand upright and step back from the bed, scarcely believing his ears.

All the rest of that night the man on the bed raved and muttered, but of people and places and happenings which he had not mentioned before. And the minister, listening intently to every word, caught himself wondering if he also was not losing his mind.

When the morning came, Ebenezer Capen was awakened by a shake to find John Ellery standing over him.

“Capen,” whispered the minister, “Capen, get up. I must talk with you.”

Ebenezer was indignant.

“Judas priest!” he exclaimed; “why don't you scare a feller to death, comin' and yankin' him out of bed by the back hair?” Then, being more wide awake, he added: “What's the row? Worse, is he? He ain't—”

“No. But I've got to talk with you. You used to be a whaler, I know. Were you acquainted in New Bedford?”

“Sartin. Was a time when I could have located every stick in it, pretty nigh, by the smell, if you'd set me down side of 'em blindfold.”

“Did you ever know anyone named—” He finished the sentence.

“Sure and sartin, I did. Why?”

“Did you know him well?”

“Well's I wanted to. Pretty decent feller one time, but a fast goer, and went downhill like a young one's sled, when he got started. His folks had money, that was the trouble with him. Why, 'course I knew him! He married—”

“I know. Now, listen.”

Ellery went on talking rapidly and with great earnestness. Ebenezer listened, at first silently, then breaking in with ejaculations and grunts of astonishment. He sat up on the edge of the bed.

“Rubbish!” he cried at last, “why, 'tain't possible! The feller's dead as Methusalem's grandmarm. I remember how it happened and—”

“It wasn't true. That much I know. I KNOW, I tell you.”

He went on to explain why he knew. Capen's astonishment grew.

“Judas priest!” he exclaimed again. “That would explain why I thought I'd seen—There! heave ahead. I've got to see. But it's a mistake. I don't believe it.”

The pair entered the sick room. The sailor lay in a stupor. His breathing was rapid, but faint. Capen bent over him and gently moved the bandage on his face. For a full minute he gazed steadily. Then he stood erect, drew a big red hand across his forehead, and moved slowly back to the living room.

“Well?” asked Ellery eagerly.

Ebenezer sat down in the rocker. “Judas priest!” he said for the third time. “Don't talk to ME! When it comes my time they'll have to prove I'm dead. I won't believe it till they do. Ju-das PRIEST!”

“Then you recognize him?”

The old man nodded solemnly.

“Yup,” he said, “it's him. Mr. Ellery, what are you goin' to do about it?”

“I don't know. I don't know. I must go somewhere by myself and think. I don't know WHAT to do.”

The minister declined to wait for breakfast. He said he was not hungry. Leaving Ebenezer to put on the coffeepot and take up his duties as day nurse, Ellery walked off along the beach. The “dead line” prevented his going very far, but he sat down in the lee of a high dune and thought until his head ached. What should he do? What was best for him to do?

He heard the rattle of the doctor's chaise and the voices of Ebenezer and Parker in conversation. He did not move, but remained where he was, thinking, thinking. By and by he heard Capen calling his name.

“Mr. Ellery!” shouted Ebenezer. “Mr. Ellery, where be you?”

“Here!” replied the minister.

The old man came scrambling over the sand. He was panting and much excited.

“Mr. Ellery!” he cried, “Mr. Ellery! it's settled for us—one part of it, anyhow. He's slipped his cable.”

“What?” The minister sprang up.

“Yup. He must have died just a little while after you left and after I gave him his medicine. I thought he looked kind of queer then. And when the doctor came we went in together and he was dead. Yes, sir, dead.”

“Dead!”

“Um—hm. No doubt of it; it's for good this time. Mr. Ellery, what shall we do? Shall I tell Dr. Parker?”

Ellery considered for a moment. “No,” he said slowly. “No, Capen, don't tell anyone. I can't see why they need ever know that he hasn't been dead for years, as they supposed. Promise me to keep it a secret. I'll tell—her—myself, later on. Now promise me; I trust you.”

“Land sakes, yes! I'll promise, if you want me to. I'm a widower man, so there'll be nobody to coax it out of me. I guess you're right, cal'late you be. What folks don't know they can't lie about, can they? and that's good for your business—meanin' nothin' disreverent. I'll promise, Mr. Ellery; I'll swear to it. Now come on back to the shanty. The doctor wants you.”

The next day the body of “Murphy,” foremast hand on the San Jose, was buried in the corner of the Regular graveyard, near those who were drowned in the wreck of that winter. There was no funeral, of course. The minister said a prayer at the shanty, and that was all. Ebenezer drove the wagon which was used as hearse for the occasion, and filled in the grave himself. So great was the fear of the terrible smallpox that the sexton would not perform even that service for its victim.

Capen remained at the shanty another week. Then, as the minister showed no symptoms of having contracted the disease and insisted that he needed no companion, Ebenezer departed to take up his fishing once more. The old man was provided with a new suit of clothes, those he had worn being burned, and having been, to his huge disgust, fumigated until, as he said, he couldn't smell himself without thinking of a match box, went away. The room which the dead sailor had occupied was emptied and sealed tight. The San Jose was to stay at her anchorage a while longer. Then, when all danger was past, she was to be towed to Boston and sold at auction for the benefit of the heirs of her dead skipper and owner.

Ellery himself was most urgent in the decision that he should not go back to the parsonage and his church just yet. Better to wait until he was sure, he said, and Dr. Parker agreed. “I'd be willing to bet that you are all right,” declared the latter, “but I know Trumet, and if I SHOULD let you go and you did develop even the tail end of a case of varioloid—well, 'twould be the everlasting climax for you and me in this county.”

Staying alone was not unpleasant, in a way. The “dead line” still remained, of course, and callers did not attempt to pass it, but they came more frequently and held lengthy conversations at a respectful distance. Ellery did his own cooking, what little there was to do, but so many good things were pushed under the ropes that he was in a fair way to develop weight and indigestion. Captain Zeb Mayo drove down at least twice a week and usually brought Mrs. Coffin with him. From them and from the doctor the prisoner learned the village news. Once Captain Elkanah and Annabel came, and the young lady's gushing praise of the minister's “heroism” made its recipient almost sorry he had ever heard of the San Jose.

Dr. Parker told him of Grace Van Horne's return to the village. She had come back, so the doctor said, the day before, and was to live at the tavern for a while, at least. Yes, he guessed even she had given up hope of Captain Nat now.

“And say,” went on Parker, “how are you feeling?”

“Pretty well, thank you,” replied the minister. “I seem to be rather tired and good for nothing. More so than I was during the worst of it.”

“No wonder. A chap can't go through what you did and not feel some reaction. I expected that. Don't get cold, that's all. But what I want to know is whether you think I could leave you for a couple of days? The Ostable County Medical Society meets at Hyannis to-morrow and I had promised myself to take it in this year. But I don't want to leave you, if you need me.”

Ellery insisted that he did not need anyone, was getting along finely, and would not hear of his friend's missing the medical society's meeting. So the physician went.

“Good-by,” he called as he drove off. “I guess your term is pretty nearly over. I shall let you out of jail inside of four or five days, if you behave yourself.”

This should have been cheering news, but, somehow, John Ellery did not feel cheerful that afternoon. The tired feeling he had spoken of so lightly was worse than he had described it, and he was despondent, for no particular reason. That night he slept miserably and awoke with a chill to find a cold, pouring rain beating against the windows of the shanty.

He could not eat and he could not keep warm, even with the cook-stove top red hot and a blanket over his shoulders. By noon the chill had gone and he was blazing with fever. Still the rain and the wind, and no visitors at the ropes, not even the light-keeper.

He lay down on his bed and tried to sleep, but though he dozed a bit, woke always with a start and either a chill or fever fit. His head began to ache violently. And then, in the lonesomeness and misery, fear began to take hold of him.

He remembered the symptoms the doctor had warned him against, headache, fever, and all the rest. He felt his wrists and arms and began to imagine that beneath the skin were the little bunches, like small shot, that were the certain indications. Then he remembered how that other man had looked, how he had died. Was he to look that way and die like that? And he was all alone, they had left him alone.

Night came. The rain had ceased and stars were shining clear. Inside the shanty the minister tossed on the bed, or staggered back and forth about the two rooms. He wondered what the time might be; then he did not care. He was alone. The smallpox had him in its grip. He was alone and he was going to die. Why didn't some one come? Where was Mrs. Coffin? And Grace? She was somewhere near him—Parker had said so—and he must see her before he died. He called her name over and over again.

The wind felt cold on his forehead. He stumbled amidst the beach grass. What was this thing across his path? A rope, apparently, but why should there be ropes in that house? There had never been any before. He climbed over it and it was a climb of hundreds of feet and the height made him giddy. That was a house, another house, not the one he had been living in. And there were lights all about. Perhaps one of them was the light at the parsonage. And a big bell was booming. That was his church bell and he would be late for the meeting.

Some one was speaking to him. He knew the voice. He had known it always and would know it forever. It was the voice he wanted to hear. “Grace!” he called. “Grace! I want you. Don't go! Don't go! Grace! oh, my dear! don't go!”

Then the voice had gone. No, it had not gone. It was still there and he heard it speaking to him, begging him to listen, pleading with him to go somewhere, go back, back to something or other. And there was an arm about his waist and some one was leading him, helping him. He broke down and cried childishly and some one cried with him.

Early the next morning, just as day was breaking, a buggy, the horse which drew it galloping, rocked and bumped down the lighthouse lane. Dr. Parker, his brows drawn together and his lips set with anxiety, was driving. He had been roused from sleep in the hotel at Hyannis by a boy with a telegram. “Come quick,” it read. “Mr. Ellery sick.” The sender was Noah Ellis, the lightkeeper. The doctor had hired a fast horse, ridden at top speed to Bayport, gotten a fresh horse there and hurried on. He stopped at his own house but a moment, merely to rouse his wife and ask her if there was any fresh news. But she had not even heard of the minister's seizure.

“My soul, Will!” she cried, “you don't think it's the smallpox, do you?”

“Lord knows! I'm afraid so,” groaned her husband. “WHAT made me leave him? I ought to have known better. If that boy dies, I'll never draw another easy breath.”

He rushed out, sprang into the buggy, and drove on. At the ropes, early as it was, he found a small group waiting and gazing at the shanty. The lightkeeper was there and two or three other men. They were talking earnestly.

“How is he, Noah?” demanded the doctor, jumping to the ground.

“I don't know, doc,” replied Ellis. “I ain't heard sence last night when I telegraphed you.”

“Haven't heard? What do you mean by that? Haven't you been with him?”

“No-o,” was the rather sheepish reply. “You see, I—I wanted to, but my wife's awful scart I'll catch it and—”

“The devil!” Dr. Parker swore impatiently. “Who is with him then? You haven't left him alone, have you?”

“No-o,” Noah hesitated once more. “No-o, he ain't alone. She's there.”

“She? Who? Keziah Coffin?”

“I don't cal'late Keziah's heard it yet. We was waitin' for you 'fore we said much to anybody. But she's there—the—the one that found him. You see, he was out of his head and wanderin' up the lane 'most to the main road and she'd been callin' on Keziah and when she come away from the parsonage she heard him hollerin' and goin' on and—”

“Who did?”

“Why”—the lightkeeper glanced at his companions—“why, doc, 'twas Grace Van Horne. And she fetched him back to the shanty and then come and got me to telegraph you.”

“Grace Van Horne! Grace Van—Do you mean to say she is there with him NOW?”

“Yes. She wouldn't leave him. She seemed 'most as crazy's he was. My wife and me, we—”

But Parker did not wait to hear the rest. He ran at full speed to the door of the shanty. Grace herself opened it.

“How is he?” demanded the doctor.

“I think he seems a little easier; at any rate, he's not delirious. He's in there. Oh, I'm so thankful you've come.”

“Is that the doctor?” called Ellery weakly from the next room. “Is it?”

“Yes,” replied Parker, throwing off his coat and hat. “Coming, Mr. Ellery.”

“For God's sake, doctor, send her away. Don't let her stay. Make her go. Make her GO! I've got the smallpox and if she stays she will die. Don't you understand? she MUST go.”

“Hush, John,” said Grace soothingly. “Hush, dear.”

Dr. Parker stopped short and looked at her. She returned the look, but without the slightest semblance of self-consciousness or embarrassment. She did not realize that she had said anything unusual, which must sound inexplicably strange to him. Her thoughts were centered in that adjoining room and she wondered why he delayed.

“Well?” she asked impatiently. “What is it? Why do you wait?”

The doctor did not answer. However, he waited no longer, but hurried in to his new patient.