"You're not afraid, Hetty, are you?" he asked. "It's disagreeable; that's all."
"No, not really, I think," she answered; "but I wish it would stop."
"It's a regular cradle—as peaceful as that," he assured her. "Only we're a little old for cradles, I guess," he added.
"I am," she said.
Over them the stars raced back and forth; for there were no clouds, only a soft haze that made the stars seem large and near, but without brightness. Close down to the sea a whitish film seemed to spread, making the curtain of the night above it intensely black. Once, as they dipped to port, Hetty's eyes caught sight of a deep-red glow suffusing the lifted wave near the bow. She clutched at Medbury's arm.
"What is that, Tom—there—like blood?" she gasped.
"That? Why, the reflection of our port light. You poor thing!" he said pityingly. "Hadn't you better go below? It's queer, but on a night like this, or in thick weather, if you once lose your nerve, you see the queerest things. Come, you'll be all right below."
She dropped her face to her hands and laughed.
"No," she said; "now I will stay. There!"—she straightened herself and looked at him smilingly,—"now, I'll be sensible. Why do you look at me like that?" she asked abruptly.
He turned his face away.