‘Ah, if we had a boat!’ I cried, running to the water’s edge.
Had the luck indeed changed and fortune begun to smile? It seemed so, for I had hardly spoken when Phroso suddenly clapped her hands and cried:
‘A boat! There is a boat, my lord,’ and she leapt forward and caught me by the hand, her eyes sparkling.
It was true—by marvel, it was true! A good, stout, broad-bottomed little fishing boat lay beached on the shingle, with its sculls lying in it. How had it come? Well, I didn’t stop to ask that. My eyes met Phroso’s in delight. The joy of our happy fortune overcame us. I think that for the moment we forgot the terrible events which had happened before our eyes, the sadness of the parting which at the best lay before us. Both her hands were in mine; we were happy as two children, prosperously launched on some wonderful fairy-tale adventure—prince and princess in their cockle boat on a magic sea.
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ cried Phroso. ‘Ah, my lord, all goes well with you. I think God loves you, my lord, as much as—’
She stopped. A rush of rich colour flooded her cheeks. Her deep eyes, which had gleamed in exultant merriment, sank to the ground. Her hands loosed mine.
‘—as the lady who waits for you loves you, my lord,’ she said.
I do not know how it was, but Phroso’s words summoned up before my eyes a vision of Beatrice Hipgrave, pursuing her cheerful way through the gaieties of the season—or was she in the country by now?—without wasting very many thoughts on the foolish man who had gone to the horrid island. The picture of her as the lady who waited for a lover, forlorn because he tarried, struck with a bitter amusement on my sense of humour. Phroso saw me smile; her eyes asked a wondering question. I did not answer it, but turned away and walked down to where the boat lay.
‘I suppose,’ I said coldly, ‘that this is the best chance?’