She: Mightily!
Myself: Aye, but how?
She: By your idle, foolish talk, for if I grow thoughtful sometimes why must you ever dream me repining against my lot? To-night, hearkening to this dreadful tempest I was full of gratitude to God that He had brought us to this safe harbourage and set me in your companionship. And if my heart cry out for England sometimes 'tis because I do love England. Yet my days here are too full of labour for vain grieving and my labour, like my sleep, is joy to me. And there is no man I love in England—or anywhere else.
Myself (and more humbly than ever): Why then I pray you forgive me, comrade.
At this she looks at me over her shoulder, frowning and a little askance.
"For indeed," says I, meeting this look, "I would have you know me ever as your comrade to serve you faithfully, seeking only your friendship and nought beyond; one you may trust unfearing despite my ungentle ways."
And now I saw her frown was vanished quite, her eyes grown wondrous gentle and her lips curving to a smile; and so she reached out her hand to me.
And thus we two poor, desolate souls found great solace and comfort in each other's companionship, and hearkening to the roar of this mighty tempest felt the bonds of our comradeship only strengthened thereby.
When my lady was gone to bed I, remembering Adam's journal, took it out, and drawing the candle nearer fell to examining the book more closely. It was a smallish volume but very thick, and with very many close-written pages, its stout leathern covers battered and stained, and an ill-looking thing I thought it; but opening it haphazard, I forgot all save the words I read (these written in Adam's small clerkly hand) for I came on this:
May 10.—Glory be and thanks unto that Providence hath been my salvation and poured upon unworthy me His blessing in that I this day have fought and killed this murderous rogue and detestable pirate, Roger Tressady.