"My God, what have I been doing! What have I been thinking? Where is my manhood that I should be lying here sacrificing her? What a weak, shameless love mine must be!"
A feeling of abasement scourged him as each thought clamored for an answer. Although his body rebelled, he arose and kept his feet. Groping below, he found a pair of boots which would admit his ankles and went forward.
Emily, with a cry of amazement, discovered him suddenly, standing in the engine room door.
"Paul, you must go back. You must rest," she commanded. "It's clear. Go back. How can you stand?"
"There's too much Irish in me, dear," he answered, forcing a smile. "You must never let an Irishman stop to nurse his hurts. He can't keep his mind on pain and the fight at the same time."
"But the fight is over."
"It's never over—when the sea's on the other side."
He was determined and she wisely forbore to say anything else about his physical condition. The meal that she prepared—the hot coffee, the warmth of the galley fire—brought life in them to a glow. Tomatoes formed one of the dishes she cooked. Paul shuddered at the sight of it.
"Not unless I am starving," he said solemnly.
As they rose from the meal Emily sensed that something was lacking.