He did not wonder. The experiences of the past few days would have killed any ordinary woman. How heroic she had been! With what abandon she had put aside everything for the purpose of saving him! She had hesitated at nothing. His love for her was measured by his honor; hers for him was boundless. 'Twas ever so; and he had reproached her, spoken harshly to her, upbraided her, turned away from her! How could he have been so cruel! she was so young, his heart yearned over her. He vowed that if God did permit them to escape from the perils which environed them, he would make up to her for every unkind word spoken, every reproach, every cutting glance, by an eternity of devotion.
The night, the ocean, the loneliness, impressed him. What had he ever done to be so blessed in the love of this noble woman? His life, as he had said, had been an idle one. In the courts he had played at hearts as he had played at war on the ships for the fun of the game. With her a serious purpose had entered his life and was before him. The silence of the night was broken only by the soft splash of the waves, as the little boat rocked gently through them. The gentle wind grew fainter and fainter; presently the flap of the idle sail against the mast apprised him that it had gone.
The white Serapis and her consort were far, far ahead, going fast and leaving a long white wake across the sea. They seemed to have kept the breeze which had failed the small boat. Coming up from the southward he could see the black shapes of the Richard and her attendant ships. What would he have given to be upon the deck by the side of that dauntless captain! But even could he approach the two ships, that privilege would be denied him, for honor demanded that he present himself upon the deck of the Serapis without delay. It might be that it would be too late even then to save Coventry, but he would go and do his best. When the boat lost way, he sat a moment in indecision. He was so loath to awaken the tired girl, but it was necessary. Gently he raised her head.
"Why, my dearest," she said, "was I asleep? What has happened? Oh!" it came back to her, "you are going back to the Serapis." Then she looked eagerly forward. The ships were far off now, several miles away; and as the breeze still held with them, the distance was increasing with every passing moment.
"We do not advance," she cried, a note of joy in her voice, as her ear detected the flapping of the sail; "the wind has died out." She laughed triumphantly, "We shall never reach them."
"And poor Coventry?" said O'Neill.
"I cannot help it," she answered simply. "I think only of you. Now if I could go back alone and take his place and let you go free, I would cheerfully do that."
"What advantage would that be to me?" he asked her.
"Well, there is little use in our discussing it any more," she answered, "for you cannot reach either ship now before it is over. The wind has gone over to them, and we are still."
"Ah, but I have another way of getting along."