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In
attitudes worthy of Michelangelo they sprawled about the deck, groaning
with anguish; huddled up in corners with a lemon-prophylactic against
sea-sickness, apparently-pressed to faces which, by some subtle process
of colour-adaptation, had acquired the complexion of the fruit;
tottering to the taffrail. . . .
There was a peasant woman dressed in black, holding an infant to her
breast. Both child and parent suffered to a distressing degree. By some
kindly dispensation of Providence they contrived to be ill in turns,
and the situation might have verged on the comical but for the fact
that blank despair was written on the face of the mother. She evidently
thought her last day had come, and still, in the convulsions of her
pain, tried to soothe the child. An ungainly creature, with a big scar
across one cheek. She suffered dumbly, like some poor animal. The
bishop's heart went out to her.
He took out his watch. Two more hours of discomfort to be gone through!
Then he looked over the water.


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