I looked at the paper in my hands; from it there floated that subtle odor that so often heralded the approach of my lady. I could not mistake that delicate perfume, nor the paper, for there were the dainty initials intertwined at the top of the sheet—M. C. Yes, it was in her handwriting—it was hers! Every letter seemed branded into my brain with a hand of fire. My head swam. So this was the last blow; cast off and spurned by my family; kidnaped and detained in captivity; my life in hourly danger—so that when I lay down at night I knew not whether I would awake again—scorned and distrusted by my friends; condemned to die as a pirate, alone, friendless—my sun about to set in disgrace and despair.
Yet I could bear all these things, sustained by my love and trust for her when all else failed. She was to me as the North Star to the storm-tossed mariner, ever calm, serene, lovely—what though she gleamed far away and distant, I could yet see her in memory and guide by her my tempest-tossed bark.
When that light failed, then indeed I was adrift without chart and compass, at the mercy of the winds and waves. This was the last drop that filled my cup to overflowing. There was naught left for me—all was lost! Night, black and inpenetrable, seemed to rise before my tortured eyes; the roll of the ocean beat and moaned in my ears; something within me seemed to snap and break; my breath choked and ceased; I dropped upon the floor, and all else was a blank to me.
Someone was sprinkling water upon my face, and looking up, I saw bending anxiously over me the priest, a look of concern upon his red face.
"Leave me," I moaned. "Canst thou not let me rest in peace? Go! Go!"
"I tell thee I cannot," he said. "Dost thou not remember that I had a proposition for thy ear alone?"
"I care not for thy proposition!" I answered. "Let me die in peace! I would not turn my finger for life or death—go!"
"Remember the lad then," he replied. "If thou dost care not for thyself, remember him. He has a life that even I, besotted as thou dost think me, would grieve to see lost. Would thou cast it from thee, when by one word thou couldst save him? One good deed thou wilt not regret."
"Help me to a chair then," I replied, "and I will hear what thou hast to say."