"All this!" says she, staring up into my eyes, "But I do pity you most for—what you are become. O—kill me if you will, 'twould be very easy for you and, mayhap, best for me, and I do not fear to die. So do as you will, Martin Conisby, I do not fear you since Death is my kind friend and shall free me of the shame of you if need be!"
Hereupon I loosed her and, crouched again in the stern-sheets, bowed my head upon my fists, whiles she, kneeling patiently beside the midship thwart, ordered her wrenched garments with shaking hands.
And, after some while, her voice with its sweet, vital ring, pierced to those black deeps where lay the soul of me:
"'Tis growing very rough. What must we do?"
Lifting my head, I saw that the sea was risen considerably, and the boat drifting broadside to the wind, so that the waves, taking us abeam, spilled aboard us ever and anon. So I arose and made shift to step the mast and hoist sail, nothing heeding her proffered aid; then shipping the tiller, I put our little vessel before the wind. And now, from a log pitching and rolling at mercy of the waves, this boat became, as it were, alive and purposeful, lifting to the seas with joyous motion, shaking the water from her bows in flashing brine that sparkled jewel-like in the early sun, her every timber thrilling to the buffets of the waters that rushed bubbling astern all rainbow-hued and with a sound like elfin laughter, until what with all this and the strong, sweet air, even I felt the joy of it; but though my black humour lifted somewhat, my shame was sore upon me, wherefore I kept my gaze for the peak of the sail, the cloudless heaven, the deep blue of the seas, and never so much as glanced at the patient, solitary figure amidships.
"Whither do we sail?" she questioned at last.
"What matter?" says I sullenly.
"Aye, true!" she sighed.
"Besides, I have no compass."
"There is one in the locker here, and with it a packet and a letter writ to you. Shall I bring them?"