Ora, ora pro nobis, Sancta Maria."

It is the evening hymn of the curé and his acolytes pealing out on the
still evening air. Higher and higher one treble voice goes like the cry
of a soul in agonized entreaty:

"Maria, Maria, Sancta Maria,
Ora, ora pro nobis."

Then it dies away, and all is still except the ever-present swish! swish!
of the rising tide against the great boulders on the beach.

"Oh! I say, Webster," said young Brown, in his mincing, affected tone,
"why not, after they have finished in there," he pointed to the church,
"go in and ask the priest whether he knows anything of these people? He
ought to know them if anyone does. Good idea, eh?"

"Yes," said the old lawyer, turning round suddenly and looking rather
annoyed, for in spite of his hard crust of Scotch dryness, his young
clerk's voice has jarred on him at this moment. He had been deeply moved
by the beauty of the scene, and the sweet tones coming from the church
had stirred within him long-forgotten memories.

"Yes, for once you have hit on a bright idea, and we will act on it. Let
us go in and see the priest. And, my young friend, remember that most of
these priests are gentlemen, so mind your manners."

"I expect that house next the church is his," replied young Brown. "We
can walk slowly on, and, in the meantime, the priest will come from his
devotions."