The third door proved to be that of the girl's room. He heard her stirring inside as he repeated the knock, then listened with bent head. He felt the room was sacred—he had known so little of women that they all were holy to him, and he told himself that he was committing a sacrilege.
He tapped again—this time lightly. A poignant sobbing greeted his ears.
He bent his head closer and said: "It's me. Don't be afraid. I'm Stirling—the Ice Pilot. I'm the one who was in the crow's-nest."
He strained his ears, and the sobbing ceased. A hand was on the latch; the door started to slide open.
"It's me," he repeated as the hand that pressed the door hesitated. "I'm all right," he added, with tired assurance. "I'm armed, and that sailor is taken care of—the one who insulted you."
The door slid open swiftly, and the girl stood framed in the aperture. Her hair was down her back, her wide eyes swollen from tears and distress.
He rested the rifle against his hip. "Are you all right?" he asked, sincerely. "Are you?"
"Yes—now, I am." The glance that lifted to his own was frank and shimmering with amazement. Stirling glanced over her shoulder full into a long cheval mirror, and recoiled as he looked at his own reflection. The oil and grease of the shaft alley, the week-old stubble of beard, the wan, red-rimmed eyes which shone from hollow sockets—these made a picture of desperate adventure.
"You'll have to excuse me," he said. "I didn't know I looked like this."
The girl smiled and extended her hand. "You came to me," she said, bravely. "That's what I wanted."