e
paused thereby to behold my handiwork, then going on her knees crept
beneath the awning and vanished from my view.

Left alone I stared around me on the raging tumult, and beholding all
its terrors my mind was full of wonder of this maid who could sing so
blithely with Death all about her and behold God, as it were, riding on
the wings of the storm.

Presently she comes and sits close beside me that we might talk, for
the wind was very loud.

"It was kind of you to make me so fair a shelter, Martin, and a bed
also, kind and very thoughtful, but I shall not sleep to-night unless
it be here."

"And why here?"

"Death hath more terrors in the dark and I grow a little fearful,
Martin." So saying she wrapped a boat-cloak about her and, spreading
out the other, lay down thereon and so near that I might have touched
her where she lay.

And in a while Night rushed down upon us and it was dark; but from the
dark her voice reached me where she lay, her head pillowed at my feet,
and I, crouching above her, strove to shelter her somewhat from the
lashing spray and buffeting wind. Thus in despite of raging tempest we
contrived to make each other hear though with difficulty, talking on
this wise:

She: Are you afraid?

Myself: No.

She: Have you then no fears of death?

Myself: I have prayed for it, ere now.

She: And vainly! For God, instead, hath made you very hale and strong.

Myself: Aye, for a purpose.

She: What purpose?

Here, seeing I held my peace, she questioned me again: "Was your
purpose the slaying of my father? He is an old man and feeble!"

Myself: He plotted the downfall of our house and slew my father!

She: And so you have prayed for vengeance?

Myself: I have.

She: And God hath denied you this also. Should you die to-night you go
to him innocent of your enemy's blood.

Myself: Aye, but if I live--?

She: You shall grow wiser, mayhap, and forgetting the ill that lies
behind you, reach out to the good that lieth before.

Myself: And what of my just vengeance?

She: Vengeance is but for the weak of soul, 'tis only the strong can
forgive.

Myself: What of my sacred vow? What of my many prayers for vengeance?

She: Empty breath!

Myself: Dare you say so?

She: I dare more, for lying here with Death all about us I tell you,
Martin Conisby, despite your size and strength, you are no better than
a pitiful, peevish child--"

"Ha!" cried I fiercely, bending ov