To be brief, ’twas not till the fourth afternoon (by reason of baffling head winds) that we stepped out of the Godsend’s boat upon a small beach of shingle, whence, between a rift in the black cliffs, wound up the road that was to lead us inland. The Godsend, as we turn’d to wave our hands, lay at half a mile’s distance, and made a pretty sight: for the day, that had begun with a white frost, was now turn’d sunny and still, so that looking north we saw the sea all spread with pink and lilac and hyacinth, and upon it the ship lit up, her masts and sails glowing like a gold piece. And there was Billy, leaning over the bulwarks and waving his trumpet for “Good-bye!” Thought I, for I little dream’d to see these good fellows again, “what a witless game is this life! to seek ever in fresh conjunctions what we leave behind in a hand shake.” ’Twas a cheap reflection, yet it vex’d me that as we turn’d to mount the road Delia should break out singing—
“Hey! nonni—nonni—no! Is’t not fine to laugh and sing When the hells of death do ring!—”
“Why, no,” said I, “I don’t think it”: and capp’d her verse with another—
“Silly man, the cost to find Is to leave as good behind—”
“Jack, for pity’s sake, stop!” She put her fingers to her ears. “What a nasty, creaking voice thou hast, to be sure!”
“That’s as a man may hold,” said I, nettled.
“No, indeed: yours is a very poor voice, but mine is beautiful. So listen.”
She went on to sing as she went, “Green as grass is my kirtle,” “Tire me in tiffany,” “Come ye bearded men-at-arms,” and “The Bending Rush.” All these she sang, as I must confess, most delicately well, and then fac’d me, with a happy smile—
“Now, have not I a sweet voice? Why, Jack—art still glum?”
“Delia,” answer’d I, “you have first to give me a reply to what, four days agone, I ask’d you. Dear girl—nay then, dear comrade—”