She cried, with a quick blanching of her face that cruelly proved her stock of strength but slender, "If they careen the ship to-night they will be able to repair the leak in the morning, and be ready to sail before the evening."
"I do not fear that."
"Yet it might happen, Geoffrey! They will put you on shore before sailing——" She stopped, bringing her hands together with a passionate clasp.
"I do not fear that," said I again. "Much will depend on where the leak is. If it be low down they may not be able to come at it without discharging cargo, which, seeing that they have but those two boats yonder to work with, and that they will have to make tents ashore and protect themselves against the natives—if any there here be—should keep them on the move for a long month. No, dearest, I do not fear that they will get away by to-morrow night—not if they were ten times as numerous and as nimble; nor is it probable that Vanderdecken would suffer me to be marooned till the ship is ready to start. My one anxiety is just now the weather. There is tranquility in that dark blue sky over us; the wind weakens as we approach the land, and there is promise of a calm night. May God help me to achieve my purpose before another twelve hours have rolled by."
She looked at me with eagerness and alarm. "To-night!" she cried. "If this ship lies here for days, as you imagine, how, when we are ashore, dare we hope to escape the strenuous search Vanderdecken is certain to make for us?" I smiled; she continued, with a feverish whisper: "Consider, dearest! If we are captured—he will have your life! God knows into what barbarities his rage may drive him!"
"Dearest," said I, gently, "let us first get out of the ship."
And here we broke off, for our whispering had lasted long enough. Soon after this we went below to dinner. At the start we none of us spoke, our behaviour and perhaps our appearance answering very exactly to the poet's description of a party in a parlour who sat—
"All silent and all damned!"