"Loved!" says I, catching my breath and staring down at her tear-wet lashes, "Loved me—O Damaris—"
"Aye loved, and honoured you above all men until the beast broke loose."
"And now?" cried I hoarsely, "And now—what? Speak!"
"God's pity—loose me, Martin!"
"And now what—tell me. Is't hate now, scorn and contempt—as 'twas aboard ship?"
"O Martin—let me go!" she sobbed.
"Answer me, is it hate henceforth?"
"Yes!" she panted, "Yes!" and tore herself from my hold. But, as she turned to fly me, I caught her back to me and, madman that I was, bent her backward across my knee that I might look down into her eyes; and, meeting my look, she folded her hands upon her bosom and closing her eyes, spoke broken and humbled:
"Take—take your will of me—Black Bartlemy—I am not—brave enough to stab you as—she did—"
Now at this I shivered and must needs cast my gaze towards that great pimento tree that towered afar off. So, then, my hateful dream had come true, and now I knew myself for black a rogue as ever Bartlemy had been. So I loosed her and starting up, stood staring across the desolation of ocean.