Abel had never heard of a spirit that cried like this one, or of a
spirit that was frightened, and he rose to his feet that he might look
over the gunwale and into the derelict. From this vantage he beheld the
head of a little child, and he could see, also, that this very real
child, and not the much feared spirits, was the source of the loud and
piteous wails.
The spirit of evil, then, had not tarried after striking down the man.
Doubtless God had interposed to save the child, else it, too, would have
been destroyed, and no spirit of evil could remain where God exerted His
power. Here was a subtle and potent charm in which Abel Zachariah had
unwavering faith, for, after all, his faith in God was greater than his
faith in the religion of his fathers. And so, vastly relieved and no
longer afraid, he rowed his skiff alongside the boat, made his painter
fast and stepped aboard.
Standing in the forward part of the boat was a little boy, perhaps three
years of age. He was fair haired and fair skinned and handsome, but as a
result of privations he had suffered he was evidently ill and his cheeks
were flushed with fever.
Abel's great, generous heart went out to the child in boundless
sympathy. He forgot the dead man aft. He forgot even the boat. The
coveted prize of his ambition an hour before, had small importance to
Abel now. His one thought was for this distressed little one that God
had so unexpectedly sent down to him upon the bosom of the sea.
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