Here was silence again save for the creak of mast and timbers as we rose to the gentle swell and the ripple of water 'neath our keel, while the sun, high risen, blazed down from the blue, his fierce beams tempered by the cool, sweet wind.
"Are you hungry, Martin?"
"Is there aught to eat?"
"Plenty!" So saying she opened one of the lockers and brought thence a loaf of fine white bread, a neat's tongue, a flask of wine, and a small barrico of water, upon which I, for one, made an excellent meal. Which done, she sets all things away again, very orderly, and sits elbow on knee, staring away into the distance and with her back to me. Hereupon, I opened the stern-locker and found therein a couple of musquetoons, a brace of pistols, a sword with belt and hangers, and divers kegs of powder and ball.
"How came you lying stunned in the boat?" says my companion at last, but without turning her head.
"By roguery!" I answered. "But how and when did the mutiny start?"
"'Twas when we went to fetch the boy, my little page, Marjorie and I. He lay hurt and crying on the deck; so we ran out to him and took him up betwixt us, and then I heard shouts and rush of feet, and they were all about us—drunken men singing and dancing. And they struggled with us till came Master Penfeather, with Godby and others, and after much bitter fighting brought us away. But Marjorie, my dear, faithful Marjorie, had taken a blow aimed at me and died ... in my arms ... And the great cabin choking with powder-smoke ... and wounded men who cried and shouted. My dear, brave Marjorie! With the dark the fight began again, and twice I feared they would break in upon us. Then Master Adam brought me into the stern-gallery and lowered me into the boat where I might lie secure, and so got him back into the battle. But in a little I saw a hand in the gloom cutting at the tow-rope, and I screamed, but none heard. And so the boat drifted away, and with the dawn I found you lying under a boat-cloak."
When she had done, I sat awhile staring up at the peak of the sail:
"My Lady Brandon," says I at length, "Fate hath set you in scurvy company, for I am an ill rogue, very rough and rude-mannered, and no fit company for any woman, as you do very well know. Howbeit, I swear that henceforth, so long as we company together, I will trouble you no more than I may, either by act or speech, you to your place in the bows yonder in mine here at the tiller, you to your thoughts, I to mine. And thus methinks we shall do well enough until we can go our several ways."
"Must we not speak?" she questioned, keeping her face turned from me.