That evening, as the sun was going down to his tossing bed of golden waves, all canopied with softest purple, Margaret stood leaning over the taffrail. Every stitch of canvas was out—topsails, gaff-topsails, staysails, and jibs—and the good yacht bounded with a will to the bright west. But the dark woman looked astern to where the billows rolled together, forgetting what precious burden they had borne. Claudius stole to her side and stood a moment looking at her face.
"So it is over," he said at last.
"Nearly over. It has been very pleasant," said she.
"It has been more than pleasant. It has been divine—for me."
"Hush!" said Margaret softly; "remember." There was silence, save for the rushing of the rudder through the dark-blue foam. Again Claudius spoke, softly, and it seemed to her that the voice was not his, but rather that it came up mystically from the water below.
"Are you sorry it is over?" he asked—or the voice of the mighty deep welling up with its burden of truth.
"Yes, I am very sorry," she answered, whether she would or no. The sun sank down, and the magic after-glow shone in the opposite sky, tinging ship and sails and waves.
"I am very sorry too," he said; and he sighed and looked astern eastwards, and thought of the golden hours he had spent on that broad track stretching away behind. Margaret leaned down, resting her chin on her hands, and presently she unfolded them, and her fingers stole upwards and covered her face, and she bent her head. There was a mighty beating in Claudius's breast, and a thousand voices in the air cried to him to speak and to say what was in his heart to say. But he would not, for he had given the woman at his side the promise of his faith. At last she looked up and turned toward him. They were alone on the deck in the faintness of the gathering twilight.
"Claudius, you have kept your promise truly and well. Keep it—keep it always." She held out her ungloved hand.
"Always, my queen and my lady," and he kissed the white fingers once.