She bore off her charge, and the rest of us took account of stock.
We found we had lost some sail—a top-mast—several steamer chairs, and one man—Frenchy—who had been directly in the path of the wave.
“That’s what that shark meant,” said Chauncey Gale solemnly, “he won’t follow us any more. And say, Biff, it was worth the price of admission to hear you comb those fellows down. By the great corner-stone, but you did it beautiful!”
On the whole there were compensations. We had seen a Pampeiro, for one thing, and we had got rid of a mutiny; a disturbing element had been removed and an old superstition had been confirmed. Altogether, everybody was satisfied, including the shark.
But to me had come an added joy. In the moment of danger it was to me that Edith Gale had turned.
That night we walked the deck together. The sky was clear and black again, though the sea was still billowy, and there was a chill head-wind which, with our damaged rigging, necessitated the use of steam.
We walked back to the stern, and leaning over looked down at the surge boiling up from the screw beneath. Like a huge serpent it twisted away into the night, showing a white coil here and there as it vanished in the shoreless dark behind. A mighty awe came upon us. Face to face with the vastness of the universe, we were overpowered by that dread loneliness which lies between the stars.
By and by I told her of the man sailing around the world in a little boat, alone. She would not let me dwell upon it. Then I said I had thought of doing it myself.
“You must never do it,” she shuddered, “promise me that you never will.”
There had never been the slightest danger of my doing it, and never would be, but it did not seem strange that I should promise.