A Bush Bayard: Being A Romance of the Reign of Macquarie

The emigrants' last night in England was a dark and stormy one.
Yonder in Plymouth Sound the emigrant ship Amphitrite rocked at her moorings. She was to sail next morning.
In the cottage on the moor that God-fearing young farmer, Tom Trevithick sat reading his Bible, which lay on the table in front of him. Beside him sat his wife knitting. The three children, two boys and a girl, were sleeping quietly in their cots, undisturbed by the rain that beat gustily upon the window. As the wind howled round the cottage, searching every cranny, the flame of the candle flickered, and the tallow dripped in an ever increasing pyramid that formed on the candlestick.
Tom Trevithick, following the line of print with his guiding forefinger, read slowly and aloud, "They that go down to the sea in ships, and have their business in the great waters, these see the works of the Lord and His wonders in the deep."
Lucy Trevithick, his wife, got up and went over to the cot where the smallest boy was sleeping. She raised the chubby head, smoothed the pillow, and laid the child down again, tucking in the bedclothes. The child smiled in his sleep, and the mother bent her head and kissed him. Then she sat down again beside her husband.
"For He commandeth and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof. They mount up to heaven, they go down to the depths; their soul is melted because of trouble."
"Tom, dear," said the woman, "hadn't we better go to bed now and get some sleep? It must be nearly 12 o'clock."
"Aye, aye, my lass. Just wait a minute until I finish the Psalm, and then we will go to rest for the last time in old England."
He began to read again, "Oh, that men would praise the Lord for His goodness," but stopped abruptly in the middle of the verse. "Did ye hear someone calling, Lucy, or was it only the wind?"
They both listened intently, and sure enough they heard a faint "Hallo!" through the storm outside. Then there came a sound of wheels and trotting hoofs that stopped suddenly outside the cottage door.
"Who can it be at this time of night?" said the woman, in a scared tone of voice. There were grim tales of hearses drawn by headless steeds, and preceded by phantom riders in Devonshire in those days. Lucy Trevithick was wrought up by the excitement of the approaching departure, and, like all the other dwellings on the moor, she readily became a prey to superstitious fears.
"There's nothing can hurt us, lass, with the Word in front of us," said Tom, with simple piety. He rose from the chair and went to the door and opened it. As he did so the wind and rain drove in, making the candle flicker and nearly extinguishing it.
"Tom, Tom," said Lucy almost in a scream, "there is a tall man on the threshold. I saw him plain. Now may the Lord preserve us from all harm."
Next moment, a huge figure, heavily cloaked, stood in the cottage. "Why, Tom Trevithick, don't you know me?" said the intruder, stepping into the little circle of light that the candle threw out, while the rain dripped from his cloak and made a puddle on the floor.