"And is this—all?" she questioned at last.
"Yes!" said I. "Yes!"
"Yet you do not tell me of the cruel wrong she did you—and me! You do not say she lied of you."
"She is dead!" said I. "And very nobly, as I do think!"
Hereupon my lady rose and going into her cabin, was back all in a moment and unfolding a paper, set it before me. "This," said she, "I found after you were fled the ship!" Opening this paper, I saw there, very boldly writ:
"I lied about him and 'twas a notable lie, notably spoke. Martino is not like ordinary men and so it is I do most truly love him—yes—for always. So do I take him for mine now, so shall lie become truth, mayhap.
"JOANNA."
And even as I refolded this letter, my lady's arms were about me, her lovely head upon my shoulder:
"Dear," said she, "'twas like you to speak no harsh thing of the dead. And she gave you back to me with her life—so needs must I love her memory for this."
And so we presently got to our breakfast,—sweet, white bread new-baked, with divers fish she had caught that morning whiles I slept. And surely never was meal more joyous, the sun twinkling on Adam's silver and cut glass, and my lady sweeter and more radiant than the morn in all the vigour of her glowing beauty.