[CHAPTER X.]
I think the boatswain was right.
It was no season for love-making; but it was surely a fitting moment "for finding each other out in."
I can say this—and God knows never was there less bombast in such a thought than there was in mine: that when I looked round upon the sea and then upon my beloved companion, I felt that I would rather have chosen death with her love to bless me in the end, than life without knowledge of her.
I put food before the steward and induced him to eat; but it was pitiful to see his silly, instinctive ways, no reason in them, nothing but a mechanical guiding, with foolish fleeting smiles upon his pale face.
I thought of that wife of his whose letter he had wept over, and his child, and scarcely knew whether it had not been better for him and them that he should have died than return to them a broken-down, puling imbecile.
I said as much to Mary, but the tender heart would not agree with me.
"Whilst there is life there is hope," she answered softly. "Should God permit us to reach home, I will see that the poor fellow is well cared for. It may be that when all these horrors have passed his mind will recover its strength. Our trials are very hard. When I saw that Russian ship I thought my own brain would go."
She pressed her hand to her forehead, and an expression of suffering, provoked by memory, came into her face.
We despatched our meal, and I went on to the main-deck to sound the well. I found two feet of water in the hold, and I came back and gave the boatswain the soundings, who recommended that we should at once turn to and get the boat ready.