That story she had heard the night before, the story Mark told Joel in the after cabin, had made of him something superhuman in her eyes. He was a gigantic, an epic figure; he had lived red life, and fought for his life, and killed.... There was Puritan blood in Priscilla; but overrunning it was a flood of warmer life, a cross-strain from some southern forebear, which sang now in answer to the touch of Mark’s words. She watched him, that morning, with wide eyes that were full of wonder and of awe.
Mark saw, and was immensely amused. He asked her: “Why do you look at me like that, little sister? I’m not going to bite....”
Priscilla caught herself, and smiled, and laughed at him. “How do I look at you? You’re—imagining things, Mark.”
“Am I?” he asked. And he touched Joel’s arm. “Look at her, Joel, and see which of us is right.”
Joel was eating his breakfast silently, but he had seen Priscilla’s eyes. He looked toward her now, and she flushed in spite of herself, and got up quickly, and slipped away.... They watched her go, Joel’s eyes clouded thoughtfully, Mark’s shining. And when she was gone, Mark leaned across and said to Joel softly, a devil of mischief in his eyes: “She heard my tale last night, Joel. She was not asleep. Fooled you....”
Joel shook his head. “No. She was asleep.”
Mark laughed. “Don’t you suppose I know. I’ve seen that look in woman’s eyes before. In the eyes of the little brown girl, the night I dropped the fat man overside....”
He sat there, chuckling, when Joel got abruptly to his feet and went on deck; and when he came up the companion a little later, he was still chuckling under his breath.
After that first morning, Priss was able to cloak her eyes and hide her thoughts; and on the surface, life aboard the Nathan Ross seemed to go on as before. Mark threw himself into the routine of the work, mixing with the men, going off in the boats when there was a whale to be struck, doing three men’s share of toil. Joel one day remonstrated with him. “It is not wise,” he said. “You were captain here; you are my brother. It is not wise for you to mix, as an equal, with the men.”
Mark only laughed at him. “Your dignity is very precious to you, Joel,” he mocked. “But as for me—I am not proud. You’d not have me sit aft and twiddle my thumbs and hold yarn for little Priss.... And I must be doing something....”