The surface of the water, instead of glittering around us, as it had done upon preceding nights, was now of a grey, gloomy complexion—for it reflected the colour of the clouds that hung over it. Both wore fit emblems of my own sad spirit.
Almost mechanically I remarked to my companion this change in the heavens, and spoke about the darkness of the night.
“So much the better, lad,” was his laconic reply, and he again relapsed in silence, as if he did not desire to be led into conversation.
I lay for awhile pondering upon his reply. How was it better?—what signified the darkness?—what advantage could be gained by that? A dark night could not bring ships upon the sea; nor could it save me from the doom that had been decreed. The sun would rise all the same; and at his rising I must die! The darkness could not avail me! What could he mean?
I pondered a long while upon his answer, but could not make out its signification. Had he intended it as a phrase of encouragement—something to hold out a hope to me—something to cheer me? for indefinitely it had this effect—or was the answer given mechanically and without thought?
The former I dared not hope. Since the moment in which my respite had been granted, he had not spoken nor offered a word of hope, for certain was I that he had none to offer. What then meant he by the words he had just uttered—“So much the better, lad?”
I would at length have asked him; but, just as I had made up my mind to do so, I perceived that he was twisting himself about, and before I could speak to him, he had turned his head away—so that he could no longer have heard me in a whisper. Not desirous that others should overhear the question I was about to put to him, I remained silent and waited for a better opportunity.