Yesterday seemed years past. I blinked my eyes, looking from the peaceful garb of nature to Moira's slim body huddled in prayer beside the mound of raw earth amongst the pine needles. On the edge of the grove the men who had dug the grave were playing a gambling game with the pine-cones. Peter leaned on a musket, gravely compassionate. My great-uncle, his eyes puckered in thought, was staring out to sea. As I watched, he twitched my coat sleeve and drew me to one side.
"I shall leave you to amuse yourself as you choose for the remainder of the day," he said. "'Tis for you and Peter to safeguard the maid. I must ascertain, if possible, what hath become of Flint."
"And then?" I asked.
"Then?" His eyebrows arched in surprise. "Why, then, Robert, we shall continue as we have done hitherto."
"You must pursue this insane scheme?"
He was as patient with me as if I were a fractious child.
"'Tis no 'insane scheme,' but a coup of high politics of fascinating import, my boy. I own to disappointment it doth not appeal to you more readily. What? Shall we cry quits, simply because of shipwreck? And after every move hath turned as we plotted it should!"
I shook my head hopelessly, but decided to try again.
"Bethink you," I argued, "the longboat can speedily be made weather tight. In her we might reach——"
"Put it from your mind," he interrupted with a hint of iron in his voice. "You little know me, Robert, if you reckon me one to turn back from what I have begun—in especial, this matter which consummates the ambition of my life."