"Ay, false!" he retorted, sternly. "False to the pure promptings of your own nature, false to your own heart, and false to mine. Enough; forgive me if you can, I do not doubt you will forget me; but forgive me, if you can, for speaking as I have done. Do not dread another reproach or accusation. You will never again hear either from these lips. They should have uttered none now, but the heart will assert itself sometimes, do what we will to keep it silent. Mine has spoken for the last time."
He stopped and waited motionless and stern as a statue, or some pagan at the altar on which his dearest lay sacrificed.
Violet would have spoken, but she had no words. His words weighed all hers back—choked them on her lips.
He waited for the reply. None came. He took her silence as a confession of guilt.
So he turned, and, with drooped head, left her, mistaken and blind to the last.
Not a very great distance from the spot where the lovers were going through their stormy interview and farewell, the captain was waiting for Job to explain to him the danger of which he had given due notice.
Another minute and Job emerged cautiously from behind the laurels.
"Come," said the captain, glancing at the horizon, "you are late."
"Can't help it, cap'n," said Job, with a shake of the head. "I been hanging about here waitin' for an opportunity for the last hour; somebody's been about, too close for me to get near you."