‘Marjorie,’ I said, ‘dear Marjorie, I should never have dared to tell you but for this hour. But I may never see you again, and I love you.’
And then I lost command of myself and my words, and begged her incoherently to forgive me, and to think kind thoughts of me if this were indeed farewell. She was silent for a moment, and there came no change over her face. Then she said softly:
‘Why do you tell me this now? Is there some new danger?’
I stared at her in wonder.
‘Marjorie,’ I cried, ‘Marjorie, are you not going to leave the ship?’ She shook her head.
‘I stay with Lancelot,’ she answered quietly. ‘It is an old promise between us. Where he is I abide. That is our compact.’
I cannot find any words for the fulness of joy that flooded my heart as Marjorie spoke. I would still be near her; the ruined ship remain a sacred dwelling. But in my error I had blundered, overbold, and I tried to explain confusedly.
‘Marjorie,’ I said, ‘I thought you were going and I dared to tell you the truth. It is the truth indeed, but I should not have told it.’
She held out her hand to me with a kind smile as I clasped it.
‘We are good friends,’ she said. ‘You and I and Lancelot. Let us remember nothing but that, that we are good friends, we three. I always think well of you; always deserve that I shall think well of you. Be always brave and good and God bless you!’