"Elsie," he said, softly.
No answer; no move.
"Miss Bellwood."
Still no answer.
"You must not think too hard of me, Miss Bellwood," he said, pleadingly. "I would not harm you for anything. I love you far too much for that, Elsie."
He could have sworn that the sound which came from the muffling folds of the coat was like a smothered laugh, but he knew she was not laughing at him.
"I have been wicked and desperate," he went on; "but I was driven to the life I have led. Fate has been against me all along. When I shipped on your father's vessel it was because I had seen you and knew you were to be along on the cruise. I loved you at first sight, and I vowed that I would reform and do better if you loved me in return, Elsie."
He was speaking swiftly in a low tone, and his voice betrayed his earnestness. He passed an arm around the muffled figure, feeling it quiver within his grasp, and then he continued:
"You did not take kindly to me, but I persisted. Then you repulsed me—told me you despised me, and that made me desperate. I swore I would have you, Elsie. Then came the mutiny and the burning of the vessel. Now we are here, and you are with me. Elsie, you know not how I love you! I have become an outcast, an outlaw—all for your sake! Elsie, dear Elsie! can't you learn to love me? I will do anything for you—anything!"
Again a sound came from beneath the coat. He was sure she was sobbing. It must be that he was beginning to break down that icy barrier. She realized her position, and she would be reasonable.