She (softly): Aye, this methinks should break our hearts. Indeed, Martin, you do fright me.
Myself (bitterly): Why, 'tis a something desolate possibility!
She (dolefully): And alas, Adam cometh not!
Myself: Alas, no!
She: And is long overdue.
Myself: He marched on a perilous venture; aye, mighty hazardous and desperate.
She: Indeed, dear Martin, so desperate that I do almost pity the folk of
Carthagena.
Myself (wondering): Then you do think he will succeed—will come sailing back one day?
She: Yes, Martin, if he hath to sail the ship back alone.
Myself: And wherefore believe this?