He recalled it all—how he had stood gazing there while order after order was given by Wat Kilby; how sail after sail had been set and the little vessel careened to the breeze; while ever before him, with a smile upon her face, the figure of Mace seemed to stand waving him on.
And so it had been during the homeward voyage. Every sail the vessel would bear had been kept set, and she seemed to skim over the sea in fair weather, and to battle bravely in foul, to get back to the little river and her ancient moorings beneath the trees.
He recalled telling himself that he was mad, for this was but another phase of his humour. But a short time back he was restless to get farther and farther away; now he had conjured up this phantasy to call him back—back to what?
A bitter sob would struggle from his heart as he told himself it was to gaze again upon poor Mace’s grave.
Always there, sleeping or waking, never shut from his mental vision, that sweet, pale face smiling at him as the ship sped on; and only when forced by want of provisions did they enter port, till once more upon the tide the weather-beaten ship rode safely into the mouth of the little river. Then the big boat was lowered and manned, a tow-rope run out, and the men pulled cheerily to keep the little vessel’s head straight as she glided on up the fast narrowing stream, till the spars nearly touched the branches on either side, and her old moorings were made.
Wat Kilby played the part of spy, and went ashore, for now that they were back the fancy that had floated before Gil’s eyes had been seen no more; and moody and despondent he had shrunk from leaving his ship.
It was Wat Kilby then who made his way over the hills and through the forest to the village, and had borne back the news which stirred Gil to action; and for Mace’s sake, as he said, he had determined to save poor old Mother Goodhugh from so horrible a fate.
“She would have urged me to do it,” he said to himself; and, making his plans, he had been successful; while there, half dead, the poor creature lay, with the adventurer sitting meditating by her side.
“What shall I do now?” said Gil to himself in a bitter tone. “Set sail again, I suppose, for this Sir Mark, unless too busy with his wedding, will try to hunt us down.
“Well, let him come if he will,” he added, wearily, and then rising. “Now, my lads!” he cried, “to work.”