And he would never see her again, La Mielleuse—couldn't if he wanted to ... never again ... irrevocable.... On that pillow she had laid her head, her dark darling head!... And last night he had seen it for the last time, dark, smiling in sleep, on a snowy pillow.... He remembered as he might remember a strange pantomime.... His going to his coat for—what he had there ... the silent tiptoe ... the gentle raising of her left arm, as she smiled in her sleep ... the sudden weakness at her soft warm beauty ... the decision.... Of course he had done right!... Of course!... Of course!...
Overhead the pilot stamped on the deck in a flurry of impatience. The tug wailed in irritation. He must get on deck....
He threw one last glance around.... He had everything he needed for himself.... Nothing lacking.... His eyes paused for a moment on his desk. Wait! Where was the dagger? Prince Charles's dagger?
He gripped himself in fright. Was he going—had he gone—mad? He knew where that was ... he knew ... he knew.... It was....
"Ogh!" A flash of horror went over him.... But he had done right ... of course he had done right....
"All's ready, sir," the mate called in to his cabin.
"Yes?..."
"Man, you're no' ill?" the mate looked at him, queerly.
"Of course I'm not ill." He swung on deck. "All right? Let go aft, then, and haul in. Tug a little westward: a little more westward. Hard a port, Mr. McKinstry. All right! Let go all, for'a'd.... She's off...."