The next morning as I sat in my cabin, looking at the card which was to guide me to Campeachy, but my eye wandering from that part to the wilderness where the sweetest moments of my existence had been passed, my lady came on board, and ere I knew it stole to my side.
"Is that where you are going, Benet?" says she, leaning over my shoulder.
"Ay," says I, stammering like a fool; "Sir Bartlemy has told you?"
"Yes," says she, "and I've come to know where you mean to bestow your little comrade."
"My little comrade?" says I, choking with despair; "I have none."
"What's become of the little comrade?" asks she.
I could make no reply save by putting my finger on the map where, as I guessed, we had encountered the party sent to meet us, and my little comrade had put off her stripling's dress and donned her gown again.
"Your little comrade," says she, bending over me till her glowing cheek was side by side with mine—"your little comrade has changed her dress, but not her heart, Benet. The little comrade who saw you striving to be a brother, knew you to be a lover, and liked you none the less because you failed. To hide your love was an effort; to hide mine a grief. Now you know why I was dull, Benet. I was sick of love, dear—sick of love."
And with that she laid her cheek to mine, and such rapture seized me that I knew not what I did.
Yet presently a sudden recollection chilled me, and I said with a groan, "Smidmore!"