Last time I
was there I used to notice every day a very old man making a
pretence of working in a kitchen garden attached to a little white
mission-house - a Basle Society depot. He always seemed to be
leaning on his spade, always gazing out seawards in the same intent,
fascinated way. Some one told me his history at last. He was an
Englishman of good position who had got into trouble in his younger
days and served a term of years in prison. When he came out, sooner
than disgrace his family further, he published a false account of
his death and sailed under a disguised name for Africa. There he
has lived ever since, growing older and sinking lower, often near
fortune but always missing it, a slave to bad habits, weak and
dissolute if you like, but ever keeping up his voluntary sacrifice,
ever with that unconquerable longing for one last glimpse of his
own country and his own people. I saw him, not many months ago,
still there, still with his eyes turned seawards and with the same
wistful droop of the head. Somehow I can't help thinking that that
old man was also a hero."
The tinkling of glasses and the sort murmuring of whispered
conversation had ceased during Francis' story. Every one was a
little affected - the soft throbbing of the violins upon the balcony
was almost a relief.
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