“Yea.”
“I did not feel it come upon me. Why is that?”
“I know not. I know this—thou yieldest well.”
“Father, thou art an able one. It is well thou couldst do it, for my pain would have been sore. Yet, Hellen and Electra, how bore they it?”
“Well, as I knew. Each had the other.”
“But—Sensel?”
“Sensel went with me.”
“Father!”—There was a fine condensation of amazement, horror, reproach.
“It was not of my will. He and Hellen were strong in saying they would go, when Electra screamed because thou hadst fallen into this sleep. Thou shouldst have seen Hellen. Forgetting me, he darted to her. Here was the chance for Sensel. He leaped down beside me, and loosed the boat. I could but yield.”
“It was wrong of thee, of him. There are other things than that island. Thou shouldst have turned back rather than have risked a life so young and noble as that of Sensel. And, for thee—thou wouldst have bereft a waiting, sorrowing wife and fond children. Should not wife, children, Sensel, have had more weight than the fate of fifty islands? Father, I thought better of thee!”