"Mark you," he said to her, with some deepening of his voice, "I am no god; I cannot make angels of devils. The sea has risen, can I cork it in a bottle, or tie the storm wind up in a sack? Give me my due. I am human, not a demi-god."
She understood his mood, and pitied him in measure, for he had a burden on his soul sufficient for a Hercules. His men were half mutinous; they would fight for him, but he could not stem their lusts. He was as a stout ship borne upon the backs of riotous waves.
"Well would it have been," she said, "if you had never raised this storm."
"It is easy to be wise at the eleventh hour," he answered her.
"Can you not stay it even now?"
"Woman, can I stem the sea!"
"The blood of thousands dyes your hands."
He twisted in the saddle as though her words gored him to the quick. His face twitched, his eyes glittered.
"My God, keep silence!"
"Fulviac."