Suddenly, as she paused, the younger, slimmer figure turned in her direction and uttered a cry, a cry almost of terror. Was she demented? Had her longing, her aching longing for a sight of him called up this vision of Stafford? Unless she were out of her mind, the victim of a strange hallucination, it was he himself who stood there, his face, pale and haggard, turned towards her.
"Stafford!" she cried, unconsciously, and her hand gripped the iron rail in front of her.
As if he had heard her—though it was impossible that her voice could reach him through the shouts of the sailors, the lowing and bleating of the cattle—he raised his head and looked in her direction. Their eyes met and were enchained for a moment, which seemed an eternity; then the blood flew to his face, leaving it the next moment paler than before. He swung round to the fat man by his side and clutched his arm.
"Wait! Stop the vessel! I want to go ashore!" he said, hoarsely.
Mr. Joffler stared at him, then laughed.
"Hold on, sir!" he said, not unsympathetically. "Hold on! Took queer like! Lor' bless you, I know how the feelin' is! It catches at you right in the middle of the waistcoat. It's the thought of the land going back from you—we're moving, we're well away. Here, take a sip of this! You'll get over it in a brace o' shakes."
He thrust a flask into Stafford's hand, but Stafford put it away from him.
"Let me go ashore! I'll join you later," he said, breathlessly.
Mr. Joffler caught his arm as he was about to jump for the quay.
"Steady, steady, sir!" he admonished, soothingly. "We can't stop—and you'd break your neck trying to jump it! And all for a fancy, too, I'd stake my life! Hearten up, man, hearten up! You're not the first to feel sick and sorry at leavin' home and friends."