"Oh, loved Martin," said she, "I love you more than I guessed because you are greater than I dreamed—my father's letter hath told me so much of you—your goodness to your enemy—how you wiped away his tears, ministered to his hurts, carried him in your arms. I have read it but now and—'tis tale so noble—so wonderful, that needs must I come to tell you I do love you so much—so much. And now—"
"You are mine!" said I, gathering her in my arms. "Mine for alway."
"Yes, dear Martin! But because I am yours so utterly, you will be gentle with me—patient a little and forbearing to a—very foolish maid—"
For answer I loosed her, whereupon she caught my hand to press it to her tender cheek, her quivering lips.
"Oh, Martin!" she whispered. "For this needs must I worship thee!" And so was gone.
CHAPTER XXXIII
OF DREAMS
I waked marvellous refreshed and full of a great joy to hear her sweet singing and the light tread of her foot going to and fro in the great cabin, where she was setting out a meal, as I guessed by the tinkle of platters, etc., the which homely sound reminded me that I was vastly hungry. Up I sprang to a glory of sun flooding in at shattered window and the jagged rent where a round-shot had pierced the stout timbering above; and having washed and bathed me as well as I might, found my lady had replaced my ragged, weather-stained garments by others chosen from the ship's stores. And so at last forth I stepped into the great cabin, eager for sight of my dear lady, albeit somewhat conscious of my new clothes and hampered by their tightness.
"Indeed," said she, holding me off, the better to examine me, "I do find you something better-looking than you were!"
"Nay, but I am burned browner than any Indian."