“‘Well, what of it, Eric?’ I asked, knowing, but thinking that to talk might ease the man.
“‘It was a scarred bull stove my boat—that day,’ he told me.
“‘Every old bull has his scars,’ I said easily.
“‘Aye—but—this was the same, Mark!’
“‘What matter?’
“He flushed and stammered like a child. ‘Her curse is on me,’ he declared. ‘The old bull is going to wait for me!’
“‘He’ll suffer by it,’ I laughed. ‘He’s a fat old duke, too.’
“Eric looked forward where the men were working, and looked aft, and then out across the sea; and then he looked at me at last with an appeal in his eyes. ‘Are you calling me “murderer” as she did, Mark?’ he asked.
“I shook my head. ‘She’s but a girl,’ I told him. ‘There was no need of killing the cow. But what matter for that? And the other—was no one’s blame.’
“His hand gripped my arm till I winced. ‘You mean it?’ he begged, hungrily.