It is difficult even to suggest how this letter moved me.
Like a pause of peace and hope and love in the midst of the strenuous hurly-burly of the struggle, it seemed; a favour on the lance of a knight setting out to battle for the woman of his heart; a kiss imprinted on the shield with love’s whispered blessing. For the moment all else in the world was nothing, and Miralda was all in all. Everything was forgotten as my thoughts wandered among the fairy groves of that mystic domain of ecstatic oblivion—the rhapsody of a lover who knows that he may hope.
“Shall I sew these shot pads together, sir?”
It was Bryant’s respectful voice, and it brought me to earth as if I had dropped from a balloon.
“Eh? Oh. Yes. No. I’ll see to it in a moment,” I muttered incoherently, as my thoughts were knitting themselves together. “Don’t go, Bryant;” and with an effort I told him what I wished and sent him away.
The dream was broken, but I folded Miralda’s letter and was putting it next my heart, when common sense prevailed over romance. I might fail. If I did and were searched, the letter, instead of an amulet protecting me from danger, might prove a serious peril for her. So I lit a match, and kissed the paper once more, and burnt it.
Then Burroughs returned to discuss where we had better have the launch in waiting for him to get back to the Stella. This proved to be, however, only the preface to a change he wished to make in the plan.
“You don’t seem to think that you’ll be in any danger while you’re in the hands of these fellows on the Rampallo, Ralph?”
“No. I shall take a revolver with me, of course. There’ll be plenty of chance of concealing it under all that padding.”
“Well, I’ve thought of something. When the time comes for us to hail their boat in the morning, it would give them a much bigger scare if it was you who hailed them. I’m afraid of that part of the business, you know.”