"Good luck we must have, for the worst is past," says I.
"Yes, I think so," says she. "Good-night."
And in this belief she fell asleep, perhaps to dream her hopes were realized.
Alas! she was soon to be roused from that dream—soon to know that the worst was not past.
CHAPTER XXXII.
WE ARE ENCOMPASSED WITH BLACKAMOORS, TO OUR GREAT PERIL.
It was drawing near morning, and a breeze had sprung up, ruffling the waters, so that I had to keep the boat away from the rock with my oar, lest the bumping and grating of its side should disturb Lady Biddy's repose, which I would not have had for the world, and the tide being again at the ebb, my face was turned towards the opening in the rocks by which, as I say, we entered this little harbor, when I first heard the sound of a voice.
It seemed to my ear like a cry of triumph or discovery, and for the moment I believed that our pursuers had spied us from the cliff above; but on looking up where the black rock cut off the view of the starry sky I could see nothing but its jagged edge; moreover, I was convinced that no one from that height could spy us in this dark nook, for the light of the stars was only sufficient to show Lady Biddy's white face vaguely to me, and that only distant a few feet.
I looked around me, but naught was there but the dark rocks and the gray sea spread out beyond the outlet. Then I concluded this cry came from some owl or night-gull. Nevertheless, I kept very watchful, with eyes wide open, and would not suffer my thoughts to return to that sweet melancholy which the contemplation of Lady Biddy's face had provoked.