"I do see it," she answered in a gravely troubled voice. "You are a madman who refuses to be warned."
"Where are you going, Magdalen?" She had loosened the rope from the wreck.
"I am going to row over to Chapel Point for salt. They think the boats will come in tonight loaded with mackerel—look at them away out there by the score—and salt will be needed."
"Can you row so far alone?"
"Easily. I learned to row long ago—for a pastime then. Since coming here I find it of great service to me."
She stepped lightly into the tiny shallop and picked up an oar. The brilliant sunshine streamed about her, burnishing the rich tints of her hair into ruddy gold. She balanced herself to the swaying of the dory with the grace of a sea bird. The man looking at her felt his brain reel.
"Good-bye, Mr. Elliott."
For answer he sprang into the dory and, snatching an oar, pushed against the old wreck with such energy that the dory shot out from the shore like a foam bell. His sudden spring had set it rocking violently. Magdalen almost lost her footing and caught blindly at his arm. As her fingers closed on his wrist a thrill as of fire shot through his every vein.
"Why have you done this, Mr. Elliott? You must go back."
"But I will not," he said masterfully, looking straight into her eyes with an imperiousness that sat well upon him. "I am going to row you over to Chapel Point. I have the oars—I will be master this once, at least."