Two brother ministers who had so far accompanied the voyagers went back in the smaller boat; but before she had reached the pier, the signal gun was fired and the Sultana stood out to sea.
CHAPTER VIII.
A LOVER’S PERSISTENCE.
It was the fifth day out at sea; Britomarte had a stiff attack of mal-de-mer, but had not been so sick as to be unable to enjoy the witticisms of the Irish stewardess, Judith Riordon, or the pleasantries of the good-natured Captain McKenzie; but the spell of dirty weather that had ensued after crossing the bar was now over, and Britomarte climbed the stairs, made her way carefully across the deck and seated herself on one of the coils of rope stowed against the bulwarks.
Her eyes wandered over the scene.
What a grand, sublime and glorious round it was! This boundless sky! One vast circle of air above; one vast circle of water below. Not a bird to be seen in all the air; not a sail to be seen on all the sea.
Their own lonely ship was the center of this circle and the only one within it. The solitude of this scene was even more stupendous than its vastness.
Gazing, Britomarte sank into thought, then into dream, then almost into trance.
What past life was the beautiful man-hater living over again in that self-forgotten reverie?
Whatever it was, it wrapt her whole soul in an abstraction so profound, that she did not hear the approach of a footstep, though that step rang clearly and firmly upon the deck; nor did she see the form that stood beside her, though that form sheltered her from the flying spray that had begun to wet her clothing; nor did she become conscious of the intruder’s presence until he stooped to her ear and breathed her name:
“Miss Conyers!”