The man watched, amazed, awe-stricken, yet with a strange peace in his
soul. He made no movement to gain the shore. He only looked and looked.
The white-robed figure bent over the basket. He lifted from it a crude
rough loaf of bread. He raised his eyes to heaven, his lips moved. He
broke the bread and gave it.

As the sailor watched the island disappeared as suddenly as it had come.
The scene changed. Now he looked into a low room, dimly lighted with
strange lamps. Through an open window he saw the stars. The few men that
had stood about the man in the grassy meadow were alone with him in that
upper chamber reclining about a table. The man lifted from the board a
cup of silver. He blessed it and gave it. The fragrance of wine came to
the watcher.

He rubbed his eyes and looked again and before him spread the smooth
unbroken surface of the monotonous sea. The woman's voice smote his ear
again, higher, shriller, with more painful entreaty.

"A priest--for the love of God--the sacrament," she whispered.

The man tore open the last canvas bread-bag. It was tough material but
it yielded to his insistence. In the corner there was a single tiny
crumb they had overlooked. He lifted it gently with his great hand. He
held it up in the air a moment striving to think. He was an English
sailor and in his boyhood had been a chorister in a great Cathedral. The
mighty words came back to him. He bent over the woman.

[Illustration: The cry for bread.]