Both were brave in marriage finery,—she in a pearl gown of brocaded silk, a scarlet cloak lined with white fur, and a feathered hat, and he in buff and blue from the wardrobe of the commandant of St. John's.
They gazed astern, across the dancing azure, to the brown and purple rocks beautified by the sunlight and crystal air. "Homeward bound," she whispered, happily, and turned her face from the mellowing coast of the wilderness to the wide east.
Together they walked forward to the break of the high deck. A fair wind bellied the sails. The tarred rigging and scraped spars shone like polished metal. The men, in their brightest sashes and cleanest shirts (in honour of the occasion), went about their duties briskly. The mates wore their side-arms; both watches were on deck, with the gaiety of the days ashore still in their hearts. Not a soul was below save the cook (who sorted provisions in the forward lazaret), Maggie Stone (who sulked in her mistress's cabin because she had not been asked to act as bridesmaid), and old Trowley, with wrists and legs in irons and a dawning repentance in his sullen blood.
An hour later Ouenwa ascended the starboard ladder from the waist, and stood beside Master and Mistress Kingswell. He wore a dashing outfit, which had been made to his shape by the garrison tailor in the days preceding the marriage. A sword was at his belt; lace hung at his wrists; his dark hair, slightly curled, fell to his shoulders. His tanned cheeks were flushed with the excitement passed and the adventures anticipated. Only the dark alertness of his eyes and the litheness of his actions bespoke his primitive upbringing. Though he had been named "dreamer" by his people, he gave promise now of a life of deeds rather than of dreams.
"Do you mourn the little stockade and the great river, lad?" queried Kingswell, laying a hand on the boy's shoulder.
Ouenwa shook his head emphatically and glanced knowingly aloft. "Why should I mourn them?" he asked. "Am I not bound for castles and great houses, for books in number as the leaves of the birch-tree, and for villages filled all day with warriors, and with ladies almost as fair as Mistress Beatrix? Shall I not read in the books, and see horses, greater than caribou, bearing gentlemen upon their backs? Then why would you have me mourn? The land behind us is not a good land. My fathers were brave and wise, and led their warriors to a hundred victories; but they were murdered by their own people. I care not for such a country."
"True, lad," replied Kingswell, "and yet, even in glorious England, you may find ingratitude as black as that of Panounia. Even kings and queens have been guilty of ingratitude."
Beatrix patted the moralist's arm.
"Why think of it now?" she said, gently, "and why fill the dear lad with doubt? Only if he climbs high need he fear disloyalty. As a plain soldier, he shall never lack the protection of such humble friends as ourselves."
Just then a lookout warned them of a sail on the larboard bow. Kingswell and Ouenwa went forward to the forecastle-head. Tom Bent (now of the rank of chief gunner) was already there, peering away under the lift of the jibs. The second mate was with him.