THE LIGHTHOUSEshoved her off," he went on (but in their anger andtheir silence they only caught a word here and there,sitting at opposite ends of the boat, united by theircompact to fight tyranny to the death). At last theyhad shoved her off, they had launched the lifeboat,and they had got her out past the point—Macalistertold the story; and though they only caught a wordhere and there, they were conscious all the time oftheir father—how he leant forward, how he broughthis voice into tune with Macalister’s voice; how, puff-ing at his pipe, and looking there and there whereMacalister pointed, he relished the thought of thestorm and the dark night and the fishermen strivingthere. He liked that men should labour and sweat onthe windy beach at night; pitting muscle and brainagainst the waves and the wind; he liked men towork like that, and women to keep house, and sitbeside sleeping children indoors, while men weredrowned, out there in a storm. So James could tell,so Cam could tell (they looked at him, they lookedat each other), from his toss and his vigilance andthe ring in his voice, and the little tinge of Scottishaccent which came into his voice, making him seemlike a peasant himself, as he questioned Macalisterabout the eleven ships that had been driven into thebay in a storm. Three had sunk.

He looked proudly where Macalister pointed; and245
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