“Well,” said Maurice, “if you go I may as well take my passage, too. I daren’t go home and face my lord with the news that you’ve run off from him. But steady, Brown-Eyes, watch what you’re doing. We’re close on the brig now. We’ll neither go to America nor back home if you upset us now.”
He took in the sprit of the sail as Una rounded the boat under the brig’s stern. A rope was flung to them and made fast. Another rope, a stouter one, was lowered to Neal. Una seized it and climbed up. Willing hands caught her, lifted her over the bulwarks, and set her on the deck.
“Am I to ferry you across, too, young lady?” asked Captain Getty.
“Yes,” said Una, “I am going with you.”
Neal leaned across the thwarts of the boat to Maurice.
“Stay you here,” he said, “leave this to me.”
He gained the deck of the brig. Una met him with outstretched hands and sparkling eyes.
“Isn’t this glorious?” she said. “You never guessed, Neal. Confess that you never guessed.”
Then she shrank back from him, frightened by what she saw. His face was ashy grey, save for two flaming spots on his cheek bones. His lips were trembling. His eyes told her of some desperate resolution, of some counsel adopted with intense pain.
“What is the matter, Neal! Do you not want me after all? Will you not take me?”