As I paused at the cabin door, to ask if there was anything more which I could do for her, the lady turned to me.
“What is your name?” she asked. I am ashamed to say that I hesitated, being half inclined to give her a false name; for my time of secret service had given me a thorough distrust of pretty nearly everybody. She noticed my hesitation. “As a friend to another friend,” she added. “Life isn't all the King's service.”
“My name is Martin Hyde,” I said.
“Mine is Aurelia,” she replied, “Aurelia Carew. Will you remember that?” I told her that I should certainly remember that. “We seem to have met before,” she said, “more than once.”
“Yes,” I answered, smiling. She, too, smiled, but she quickly became grave again.
“Mr. Martin Hyde,” she said, with a little catch in her voice, “we two are in opposite camps. But I don't know. After this, it's difficult. I warn you.” Here she stopped, quite unable to go on. “I can't,” she continued, more to herself than to me, “I can't. They oughtn't to have put this on me. They oughtn't. They oughtn't.” She laid her unhurt hand on my shoulder for a moment. “Let me warn you,” she said earnestly, “that you're in danger.”
“In danger from you?” I asked.
“Don't ask me more,” she said, “I hate myself for telling you even that. Oh, it's terrible to have to do it. Go now. Don't ask me more. But I had to warn you. But I can't do it myself.” I did not know what to make of this; but I gathered that her task (whatever it was) from which she had shrunk so bitterly in the Dutch town only the night before, was now to be deputed to another, probably to the captain, perhaps to the Dartmouth justices. I did not like the thought; but I thanked her for warning me, it was generous of her to warn me. I took out the dagger with which she had tried to stab me. “You said we were in opposite camps, Miss Carew,” I said. “But I wouldn't like to keep this. I mean I wouldn't like to think that we were enemies, really.” I daresay I said other foolish things as well, at the same time.
“Yes, keep it,” she said. “I couldn't bear to have it again. But be warned. Don't trust me. While we're in opposite camps you be warned. For I'm your enemy, then, when you least expect it.”
Nothing much happened the next day until the evening, by which time we were off the Isle of Wight. With the aid of the mate, I doctored Aurelia's hand again; that was the only memorable event of the day. In the evening, the captain (who had been moody from his drunkenness of the night before) asked me to sing to him in the great cabin. I was surprised at the request; but I knew a few ballads, so I sang them to him. While I was singing, Aurelia entered the cabin; she sat down on one of the lockers below the great window. She looked very white, in the gloom there. She did not speak to me; but sat there restlessly, coughing in a dry hacking way, as though one of her ribs had been broken in the fall. I lowered my voice when I noticed this, as I was afraid that my singing might annoy her; I thought that she was suffering from her wound. The captain told me to pipe up; as he couldn't hear what my words were. I asked Aurelia if my singing worried her; but instead of answering she left the cabin for a few minutes. When she came back, she sat with her face in her hand, seemingly in great pain. I sang all the ballads known to me. When I had finished, the captain grunted a note of approval. “Well,” he said, “so there's your ballads. That's your treat. Now you shall have mine.” A little gong hung in the cabin. He banged upon it to summon his boy, who came in trembling, as he always did, expecting to be beaten before he went out. “Bring in a jug of cool water,” he said. “Then fetch them limes I bought.” As the boy went out, the captain turned to me with a grin. “Did you ever drink Turk's sherbet?” he said.