Yes, there were two more—by the bulwarks. One proved to be her Harry, the other the mate. She was glad indeed, and on drawing closer found they were holding a low slow chat about nautical affairs. She ran up and slipped her hand through Knight’s arm, partly for love, partly for stability.
“Elfie! not asleep?” said Knight, after moving a few steps aside with her.
“No: I cannot sleep. May I stay here? It is so dismal down there, and—and I was afraid. Where are we now?”
“Due south of Portland Bill. Those are the lights abeam of us: look. A terrible spot, that, on a stormy night. And do you see a very small light that dips and rises to the right? That’s a light-ship on the dangerous shoal called the Shambles, where many a good vessel has gone to pieces. Between it and ourselves is the Race—a place where antagonistic currents meet and form whirlpools—a spot which is rough in the smoothest weather, and terrific in a wind. That dark, dreary horizon we just discern to the left is the West Bay, terminated landwards by the Chesil Beach.”
“What time is it, Harry?”
“Just past two.”
“Are you going below?”
“Oh no; not to-night. I prefer pure air.”
She fancied he might be displeased with her for coming to him at this unearthly hour. “I should like to stay here too, if you will allow me,” she said timidly.
“I want to ask you things.”