I give you my honour that all recollection of who and what she was, of her station on shore, of her wealth as the old man's heiress, had as absolutely gone out of my mind as if the knowledge had never been imparted. What she was to me—what love and the wonderful association of danger and death had endeared her to me as—was what she was as she stood by my side, a sweet and gentle woman whom my heart was drawing closer and closer to every hour, whose life I would have died to preserve, whose danger made my own life a larger necessity to me than I should have felt it.
A momentary emotion of disappointment, a resentment whereof I knew not the meaning, through lacking the leisure or the skill to analyse it, made me turn and say—
"Would you like me to command one of your ships, Miss Robertson?"
"Yes," she answered, promptly.
"As a recompense for my humane efforts to preserve you from drowning?"
She withdrew her hand from my arm and inclined her head to look me full in the face.
"Mr. Royle, I never thought you would speak to me like that."
"I want no recompense for what I have done, Miss Robertson."
"I have not offered you any recompense."
"Let me feel," I said, "that you understand it is possible for an English sailor to do his duty without asking or expecting any manner of reward. The Humane Society's medals are not for him."