All about them was a hushed stir, a murmurous whispering, a thud of quick, soft feet, a flitting to and fro of dim forms, the faint sound of well-greased blocks and rousing-gear, the scarce-heard rattle of a chain, as the great yards rose slowly into the gloom above, and the anchor was hove.
“Yes,” answered Sir John, “we are stealing away to sea, and never surely was it quieter done! Come, let us go forward and watch!”
Now it chanced that as they went she tripped suddenly, fell against him, and then he had her in his arms. Passive she lay in his clasp, her face upturned to his, and, dark though it was, he saw the lure of those parted lips so near his own, the down-sweeping lashes, felt all the urge and coquetry of her.
“O Rose of love!” he murmured. “Were I any other than John Dering and thou any other than—thyself! O Innocence!” And uttering a strange, harsh laugh, he set her upon her feet. “Stand up, Rose, stand up!” he commanded. “And a heaven’s name be more wary o’ thy going. Come!” But she neither stirred nor spoke. “I might have kissed thee and—did not!” said he. “And for this, being very woman, thou’rt like to hate me more than ever. Is’t not so?”
But, giving utterance to an inarticulate exclamation, she turned swiftly and left him.
As he stood looking after her, he was presently aware of a gigantic form looming beside him.
“Aha!” sighed he, slipping his hand within Sir Hector’s arm. “Pray now resolve me this riddle, friend, namely and to wit: Why doth this ‘True-believing’ fishing-boat steal forth so silently a-fishing? Is it, think ye, that she may surprise the fish and take ’em in their sleep?”
“Havers, Johnnie man, dinna fash me wi’ sic fule questions,” answered Sir Hector. “B’my soul, I believe yo’ve fush on y’r brain, whateffer!”
“Mayhap, Hector, but I’ve one or two other things as well,” sighed Sir John, drawing his cloak against the freshening breeze.