"No." He stifled a groan. "And never will, I'm thinking. That poor sailor man is still becalmed east by west of Nowhere, and never a sign of land on either bow."
"But you must put it through somehow. Tell me ... is there anything I can do to help you?"
The Sailor shook his head miserably.
"I can't accept that as final," said Edward Ambrose. "It's—it's—I hesitate to say what it may be if only you carry it out as you have conceived it. If you don't do that I some how feel the high gods will never forgive you ... or me."
If anything could have rekindled Aladdin's lamp in the Sailor's soul it would have been the enthusiasm of this friend. But it was not to be; the trolls had him captive.
"I'm sorry," he said gently, knowing the stab he dealt. "It is no fault of yours. It's you that's made me all I am ... and if any man could have helped me here you would have been that man. But I'm just a broken mariner. It's no use mincing it—I'm done."
The stark simplicity of the confession made Edward Ambrose gasp. He could say nothing. In the honest eyes was a look of consternation.
"A mariner has got to have a star to work by. Even old Ulysses had to have that. But there's not one for Henry Harper in all the firmament." He fell into a sudden, odd, and queer kind of rage. "It's a black shame. If only I'd had a fair chance I'd have put this thing through. You might say"—the harsh laugh jarred worse than the baffled anger—"I'm a chap who has been handicapped out of the race. However..." The Sailor became silent.
Ambrose felt himself to be shaken. The impotent fury of this elemental soul was something beyond his experience. He hardened his heart. It must be his task to anchor this derelict adrift in uncharted seas until such time as help could come to him.
"Henry," he said suddenly, "does Mary Pridmore know you have returned?"