taking her rapidly away from me upon the
freshening wind. Perceiving which bitter truth, beholding myself thus
befooled, bubbled and tricked (and my head throbbing from the blow of
Penfeather's pistol-butt) a mighty anger against him surged within me,
and shaking my fists I fell to fierce curses and revilings, like any
madman, until what with my aching head and lack of breath, I cast
myself face down and lay there spent with my futile ravings. Yet even
so, bethinking me of all my fine schemes and purposes thus brought to
nothingness and myself drifting impotent at the mercy of wind and wave,
I sought to spit my puny anger against the God that made me, in
blasphemies and bitter imprecations.

"O shame, shame on you, Martin Conisby! The God you rail upon is my
God also. Have done, I say! Be silent, nor tempt His mercy with your
childish clamours!"

Up-starting I turned and beheld the Lady Brandon upon her knees within
a yard of me, saw her shrink before my gaze and the griping passion of
my hands; for now, reading in her look all her scorn and loathing for
the thing I was, I must needs turn my fury upon her and did that the
which shames me to this day, for even as she fronted me, all
defenceless but with head erect and eyes unflinching despite the sick
pallor of her cheeks, I seized her in cruel hold and, dragging her to
me, bent her backward across a thwart.

"Ha!" I gasped, "Will ye dare cry shame on me? Will ye mock--will ye
flout--will ye scorn me still--and you but a lying, thieving Brandon!
Would you trample me 'neath your proud feet--."

"All this!" says she, staring up into my eyes, "But I do pity you most
for--what you are become. O--kill me if you will, 'twould be very easy
for you and, mayhap, best for me, and I do not fear to die. So do as
you will, Martin Conisby, I do not fear you since Death is my kind
friend and shall free me of the shame of you if need be!"

Hereupon I loosed her and, crouched again in the stern-sheets, bowed my
head upon my fists, whiles she, kneeling patiently beside the midship
thwart, ordered her wrenched garments with shaking hands.

And, after some while, her voice with its sweet, vital ring, pierced to
those black deeps where lay the soul of me:

"'Tis growing very rough. What must we do?"

Lifting my head, I saw that the sea was risen considerably, and the
boat drifting broadside to the wind, so that the waves, taking us
abeam, spilled aboard us ever and anon.