He longed for contrary winds, and he wished that
Sandy Hook and all its appurtenances, including New York and the United
States, would sink gently down to the bottom of the sea. He knew, and
Sturleson had told him, that with unfavourable weather they might be at
sea a month, and he was one of the two who voted to go to Bermuda when
the accident occurred.

That evening, as the sun was going down to his tossing bed of golden
waves, all canopied with softest purple, Margaret stood leaning over the
taffrail. Every stitch of canvas was out--topsails, gaff-topsails,
staysails, and jibs--and the good yacht bounded with a will to the
bright west. But the dark woman looked astern to where the billows
rolled together, forgetting what precious burden they had borne.
Claudius stole to her side and stood a moment looking at her face.

"So it is over," he said at last.

"Nearly over. It has been very pleasant," said she.

"It has been more than pleasant. It has been divine--for me."

"Hush!" said Margaret softly; "remember." There was silence, save for
the rushing of the rudder through the dark-blue foam. Again Claudius
spoke, softly, and it seemed to her that the voice was not his, but
rather that it came up mystically from the water below.

"Are you sorry it is over?" he asked--or the voice of the mighty deep
welling up with its burden of truth.

"Yes, I am very sorry," she answered, whether she would or no. The sun
sank down, and the magic after-glow shone in the opposite sky, tinging
ship and sails and waves.

"I am very sorry too," he said; and he sighed and looked astern
eastwards, and thought of the golden hours he had spent on that broad
track stretching away behind. Margaret leaned down, resting her chin on
her hands, and presently she unfolded them, and her fingers stole
upwards and covered her face, and she bent her head. There was a mighty
beating in Claudius's breast, and a thousand voices in the air cried to
him to speak and to say what was in his heart to say. But he would not,
for he had given the woman at his side the promise of his faith. At last
she looked up and turned toward him. They were alone on the deck in the
faintness of the gathering twilight.

"Claudius, you have kept your promise truly and well. Keep it--keep it
always." She held out her ungloved hand.

"Always, my queen and my lady," and he kissed the white fingers once.

"Hullo!" shouted the Duke, emerging from the cuddy. "Upon my word! Wh