He stood thinking for a moment. He was quite practical and matter-of-fact; and had the air of a man of action rather than of one who deals in thoughts, and twists them hither and thither so that good is made to look ridiculous, and bad is tricked out with a fine new name. He frowned as he looked at the fire with eyes that flitted from one object to another, as men's eyes do who think of action and not of thought. This was the sailor—second to none in the shallow northern sea, where all marks had been removed, and every light extinguished—accustomed to facing danger and avoiding it, to foresee remote contingencies and provide against them, day and night, week in, week out; a sailor, careful and intrepid. He had the air of being capable of that concentration without which no man can hope to steer a clear course at all.
“The horses that brought you from Marienwerder will not be fit for the road till to-morrow morning,” he said. “I will take you back to Thorn at once, and—leave you there with Barlasch.”
He glanced towards her, and she nodded, as if acknowledging the sureness and steadiness of the hand at the helm.
“You can start early to-morrow morning, and be in Dantzig to-morrow night.”
They stood side by side in silence for some minutes. He was still thinking of her journey—of the dangers and the difficulties of that longer journey through life without landmark or light to guide her.
“And you?” she asked curtly.
He did not reply at once but busied himself with his ponderous fur coat, which he buttoned, as if bracing himself for the start. Beneath her lashes she looked sideways at the deliberate hands and the lean strong face, burnt to a red-brown by sun and snow, half hidden in the fur collar of his worn and weather-beaten coat.
“Konigsberg,” he answered, “and Riga.”
A light passed through her watching eyes, usually so kind and gay; like the gleam of jealousy.
“Your ship?” she asked sharply.