In a minute or two, the door opens, and a figure intrudes itself.
Rhoda put her hands in front of her face, as if she was shamed beyond all bearing, indeed. I started to my legs, for I could have killed the man.
It was David Thomas!
Yes, mates, David Thomas, come to see his lawful wife, Rhoda Thomas, who was married to him six months ago.
Rhoda put her finger on my arm, and I sat down like a lamb. It was impossible to avenge her wrong.
“Be off out of this house, which you have brought ruin into!” says Miller Howell, speaking to his son-in-law.
The lubber sheered off.
My mates, I can tell no more. We sat as we was, on that there sofa, till sunset; and then—and then, poor Rhoda died in my arms!
Yes, mates, she dropped off to sleep; and, for all her miserable end, she died happy indeed!
As for Hugh Anwyl, he went back to sea. But after every voyage he returns to Glanwern churchyard, and he puts a bunch of flowers on a grassy mound—for that is his only home.