“I nodded. ‘On his head.’ I said. ‘An old scar, gouged into the blubber.’
“I saw his jaw set hard. ‘It can’t be!’ he exclaimed, half to himself. I said nothing; and he looked at me a moment later, with an agony of doubt in his eyes.
“‘Well, what of it. Eric?’ I asked, knowing, but thinking that to talk might ease the man.
“‘It was a scarred bull stove my boat—that day,’ he told me.
“‘Every old bull has his scars,’ I said easily.
“‘Aye—but—this was the same, Mark!’
“‘What matter?’
“He flushed and stammered like a child. ‘Her curse is on me,’ he declared. ‘The old bull is going to wait for me!’
“‘He’ll suffer by it,’ I laughed. ‘He’s a fat old duke, too.’
“Eric looked forward where the men were working, and looked aft, and then out across the sea; and then he looked at me at last with an appeal in his eyes. ‘Are you calling me “murderer” as she did, Mark?’ he asked.