"And Joe?" he said. "Have you no thought of Joe?"
"Joe loves me," she said—"loves me a thousand times better than you ever did. Joe's man enough to chance death rather than lose his wife."
"But I won't let you go!" said Gregory.
"You can't stop me," she returned.
He caught her round the body and tried to hold her, but she fought herself free. His strength was gone; he was as feeble as a child; in the course of those short hours something seemed to have snapped within him. Even Madge was startled at his weakness.
"Greg, you're ill!" she cried, as he staggered, and caught at a backstay to save himself from falling. He sat down on the house and tried to keep back a sob. Madge stooped, and looked anxiously into his face. She had known him for two years as a man of unusual sternness and self-control; obstinate, reserved, willful, and moody, yet one that gave always the impression of unflinching courage and resolution. It was inexplicable now to see him crying like a woman, his square shoulders bent and heaving, his sinewy hands opening and shutting convulsively.
"You're ill," she repeated. "I'll go down and fetch you something."
This pulled him together. "I'm all right, Madge," he said faintly. "I suppose it's just a touch of the old fever. See, it's passing already."
She watched him in silence. Then she stepped forward, dropped down the forecastle hatchway, and reappeared with an ax. While he was wondering what she meant to do, she raised it in the air and crashed it down on the groaning anchor chain. It parted at the first blow, and the Edelweiss, now adrift, blundered broadside on to leeward.
Madge ran aft, brought the schooner up in the wind, and cried out to Gregory to get into his boat.