"I did not mean to do it; I did not know," she wailed, stricken to the heart by his bitter reproach.
"Ay, but you should have known; but when women meddle in affairs of state the consequences oft exceed their narrow views. Pray God, there may yet be time to rectify the frightful happening," said O'Neill, bitterly, putting the helm hard over as he spoke. The boat swept around, the sail gybed, and they headed for the northeast.
"What is it that you would do?" cried Elizabeth, in alarm, laying her hand on the tiller.
"Follow the Serapis," he answered shortly.
"For what?"
"To give myself up if possible, and thus insure his freedom."
"I knew--I knew it would be so," she whispered. "I loved him," she murmured, turning away, "I have sacrificed everything for him, and he repudiates, reproaches me. O my God, why hast thou forsaken me!" she wailed in unconscious imitation of a greater Sufferer. She drew away from him and knelt down in the boat, and buried her face in her hands, leaning upon the weather gunwale. He looked at her a moment, and before the pathetic abandonment of her grief his anger melted. She was a woman; with her, love was all.
"Elizabeth," he said tenderly, "the bitterness of having caused that good man's death, his apparent dishonor, overwhelmed me. I love you, as you know, more than life itself. You are a woman; you see things differently. There is nothing above love in a woman's heart. Come back to me; your place is here, whatever happens. I love you the more for your great sacrifice, but now we must undo it if we can. Heaven has not smiled upon our meeting; perhaps, if we go hand in hand before God together, we may find mercy, perhaps joy!"
She made no answer, but nestled against him forgiven, contented. For a time they sailed the sea in silence. The clouds had broken and left a clear sky, whence the moon had flooded the ocean with her silvery light; but the breeze came fitfully and gradually died away where they were now under the lee of the land. It was such a night as lovers dream of. They loved and they were together, side by side, alone, in the soft autumnal night, adrift on a summer sea. There was that in the past which kept them silent; and yet in their very proximity, in the hands that touched and clasped each other, the head that nestled on his shoulder, the arm that encircled her waist, the lips that met, the eyes that spoke,--there was a sweetness which neither had ever known before. The gentle wind whispered of love. The curling, lipping waves caressed the keel with sounds like kisses, and to it all their hearts kept time. It was a respite,--a lull between two phases of the conflict; there was love and there was peace in the little boat, and war and tumult were far off on the horizon.
By and by Elizabeth slipped down from the thwart, and crouched down in the boat at his feet. O'Neill held the tiller with one hand; the other lightly stroked her golden head. She was perfectly content; everything was out of her heart but he and the present; she was very still. He could see the soft curve of her cheek resting upon her sweet white hand in the moonlight. After one of the little intervals of silence, he looked down upon her again. She made no motion, and did not reply to a word he said softly, and he discovered that she was asleep.