"Of course I knew. A woman is never unaware of such things. Nor is there reason now—here in this boat, with you as my only protector—why I should pretend otherwise. Neither of us know what the end may be; we may sink in these waters, or be cast ashore on a desolate coast to perish miserably, and it is no moment for concealment. Now, if ever, I must tell you the truth. I know you care for me, and have cared since first we met. An interest no less fateful has led me to seek your acquaintance, and give you my aid. Surely it is not unmaidenly for me to confess this when we face the chance of death together?"
"But," I stammered, "I can scarcely believe you realize your words.
I—I love you Dorothy."
"And is it not also possible for me to love?"
"Possible—yes! But why should you? Forgive me, but I cannot drive away memory of the gulf between us. I would not dare speak such words of my own volition, they seem almost insult. You are rich, with position and friends of influence, while I at best am but a merchant skipper, in truth a bond servant, penniless and disgraced. In the eyes of the world I am not fit to touch the hem of your garment."
"Is it the eyes of the world, or my eyes into which you look?"
"Yours! I am selfish enough, I fear, to find my happiness there—but it is not right, not just."
"Can you not permit me to be the judge as to that?" she asked seriously. "I know your story, and have seen you in stress and storm. Am I one, think you, to love any man for wealth or position. If I possess these things they are to share, not to hoard. It is because I have given you my full trust and confidence I can say these words."
"You—you mean, you love me?"
Her eyes fell from my face and her head was turned away, but there was no falter in her voice.
"I love you—are you sorry?"