The old man shook his head; his lips trembled. Gray-faced and broken, all his years upon him, he turned away unsteadily, as if to go to his barge.
"Stop, sir!" cried Pearson. "You forget we are not in possession of the ship. We are prisoners," he whispered.
"Ah, yes," said the admiral, "I had forgotten it. Well, it matters little to me. Captain Jones," he continued, turning to the little Scotsman, and proffering his sword, with a painful gesture, "I am your prisoner, it seems."
"Sir," said the little captain, and twenty generations of gentle blood could not have done it better, "allow me to match the act of an American sailor against the word of an English officer. You are free, my Lord. Your boat awaits you. If I can do aught--"
"Be it so," said the admiral, simply. "Let me have my boy, and we will go away together, and I shall remember you differently in the future. If in England you ever need a friend, remember this moment, and call upon me. Farewell."
And two hung over the taffrail and watched the white sails of the little boat bearing away to the verdant shore, where the old castle still shone in the sunlight. Two, sad yet exultant. Their troubles were over now. They had lost everything else, but had gained each other in the losing.
"We ought to be very good to each other," said the sweet voice of the woman, "to make up to God all that He has preserved us from."
"Ay," said O'Neill, "and to give due value to the sacrifice of him who loved you, even as I do myself."