“How far are we from the post?”
“It is not so far if one might cross the island; but to go by the west shore, which would be safest, perhaps, in time of war, that is the greater part of the island's girth.”
They drew near together as they murmured, and at intervals he held the cup to her lips, making up for his forgetfulness when benumbed with sleep.
“One has but to follow the shore, however,” said the boy. “And where can I find the boat?”
“You cannot find it at all.”
“But,” he added, with sudden recollection, “I could never return it again.”
Marianson saw on the cave's rough wall a vision of her boat carrying him away. Her own little craft, the sail of which she knew how to trim—her bird, her flier, her food-winner—was to become her robber.
“When the war is over,” she ventured, “then you might come back.”
He began to explain difficulties like an honest lad, and she stopped him. “I do not want to know anything. I want you to take my boat.”
He put the cup down and seized her hands and kissed them. She crouched against the cave's side, her eyes closed. If he was only grateful to her for bread and shelter and means of escape, it was little enough she received, but his warm touch and his lips on her palms—for he kissed her palms—made her none the less dizzy.