“Go, then!”
“If I might, I should. But male and female made He them. I spoke of us as units human, but not as the unit homo. Much as I despise you, Helena, I can not separate you from myself in my own thought. We seem to me to be like old Webster’s idea of the Union—‘one and indivisible.’ And since I can not divide us in any thought, I, John Doe, alias Black Bart, alias the man you once called Harry, have resolved that we shall go undivided, sink or swim, survive or perish. If the world were indeed my oyster, I should open it for us both; but saying both, I should see only you. Isn’t it odd, Helena?”
“It is eleven-thirty,” said she.
“Almost time for luncheon. Do you think me a ‘good provider,’ Helena?”
“Humph! Mr. Davidson was. While your stolen stores last in your stolen boat, I suppose we shall not be hungry.”
“Or thirsty?” She shrugged.
“Or barren of cork-tips of the evening? Or devoid of guitar strings?”
“I shall need none.”
“Ah, but you will! It belikes me much, fair maid, to disport me at ease this very eve, here on the deck, under the moon, and to hear you yourself and none other, fairest of all my captives, touch the lute, or whatever you may call it, to that same air you and I, fair maid, heard long ago together at a lattice under the Spanish moon. A swain touched then his lute, or whatever you may call it, to his Dulcinea. Here ’tis in the reverse. The fair maid, having no option, shall touch the lute, or whatever you call it, to John Doe, Black Bart, or whatever you may call him; who is her captor, who feels himself about to love her beyond all reason; and who, if he find no relief, presently, in music—which is better than drink—will go mad, go mad, and be what he should not be, a cruel master; whereas all he asks of fate is that he shall be only a kind captor and a gentle friend.”
Her head held very high, she passed me without a word and threw open the door of her suite.