Emily's voice broke and she lowered her head in the embrace of the wounded arms which encircled her neck. The pent-up tears of all her travail of spirit since their paths had crossed—the tears choked back and fought back through the dark hours of all the weeks that had gone—would not be longer stayed. On his breast she poured them, and her one thought was that if death must be her love's victor it would strike them quickly in each other's arms.
CHAPTER XXXII
"In the Black Ball Line I served my time,
To me hoodah. To me hoodah;
In the Black Ball Line I served my time,
So hurrah for the Black Ball Line!
"Blow, my bullies, blow,
For California O!
There's plenty of gold,
So I've been told,
On the banks of the Sacramento!"
It was with this familiar capstan chanty, "The Banks of the Sacramento," ringing into his senses that Paul Lavelle opened his eyes again on conscious life. The chorus rose clear and lusty, following a baritone leader whose tones were like chimes. A strange, sharp voice of command near by suddenly cut into the chorus.
"Tell that gang of bullies to cut that out and handle that capstan in silence! Tell 'em to remember we've sick folk aboard here."
A moment afterward the chanty ceased.
"Emily, Emily!" Paul called. He believed he shouted, but his voice rose hardly above a whisper. A shadow cut off the morning sunlight which was streaming through a door at his feet. A film seemed to be over his vision, but he sensed that he was in the Daphne's lounge. Somebody sat down beside him and two strong hands took one of his between them.
"You God blessed, old pirate, you——"