"Then must we tempt the sea again in our boat."
"I am no navigator, and these seas are strange to me."
"Howbeit," says she, bravely, "we have good store of provisions."
"And when they are gone—how then, think you?"
"I think you do lack for sleep. Go, take your rest, mayhap you shall waken a little bolder and less despairing."
"And you," says I, "you that so look on all this as a joyous adventure—"
"Joyous? Ah God!" she cried, "Do you think because I do not weep that my heart is not full of misery and grief to lose thus home and friends and country and live 'prisoned and solitary with such as you, that think but on your own selfish woes and in your big body bear the soul of a fretful babe? I hate you, Martin Conisby, scorn and despise you! And now give me the tiller and begone to your sleep!" Saying which she pointed where she had spread the cloaks hard by the midship thwart and I, amazed by her fierce outburst, suffered her to take the tiller from my hold, and coming amidships laid myself down even as she had commanded.
But no thought of sleep had I, rather I lay that I might watch her (furtively, beneath my arm) where she sat head aloft, cheeks flushed and bosom tempestuous. And (despite her beauty) a very termagant shrew I thought her. Then, all at once, I saw a tear fall and another; and she that had sung undaunted to the tempest and outfaced its fury, sat bitterly weeping like any heart-broke maid, yet giving due heed to our course none the less. Presently, chancing to look my way, she catches me watching her and knits her slender brows at me:
"Get you to sleep!" says she. "O get you to sleep nor trouble my grief!"
Hereupon (and feeling mighty guilty) I pillowed my head and, closing my eyes, presently fell to sweet and dreamless slumber.