Black Bartlemy's Treasure Part 33

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 las.h.i.+ng 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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 over her in the dimness until I might stare into her eyes, wide and dark in the pale oval of her face, "Will ye dare--"

"A child," says she again, nodding at me, "lost and wilful and very selfish with no thought above Martin Conisby and his wrongs. Nay, scowl not nor grind your teeth, 'tis vain! For how may I, that fear not G.o.d's dreadful tempest, stoop to fear poor Martin Conisby?"

"Stoop, madam?" I cried hoa.r.s.ely.

"Aye, stoop," says she. "The wrongs you have endured have plunged you to the very deeps, have stripped you of your manhood. And yet--yours is no murderer's face even when you scowl and clench your fist! 'Twas so you looked when you fought that rough boy on my behalf so many years ago when you were Sir Martin the Knight-errant and I was Princess Damaris. And now, Martin, you that were my playmate and had forgot--you that were so ready to fight on my behalf--in this desolation there is none you may do battle with for my sake saving only--Martin Conisby!"

Now here she turned, her face hid from me 'neath a fold of the great boat-cloak, and spake no more. And I, crouched above her, staring down at her m.u.f.fled form outstretched thus at my mercy, felt my quivering fist relax, felt my brutish anger cower before her trust and fearlessness. And so, leaning across the tiller, I stared away into the raging dark; and now it seemed that the soul of me had sunk to deeps more black and, groping blindly there, hungered for the light.

So all night long we drove before the tempest through a pitchy gloom full of the hiss of mighty seas that roared past us in the dark like raging giants. And all night long she lay, her head pillowed at my feet, sleeping like a wearied child, and her long, wind-tossed hair within touch of my hand.

CHAPTER XXIII

DIVERS PERILS AND DANGERS AT SEA

Towards dawn the wind abated more and more and, glancing into the lightening East, I saw the black storm-clouds pierced, as it were, by a sword of glory, a single vivid ray that smote across the angry waters, waxing ever more glorious until up flamed the sun before whose joyous beams the sullen clouds scattered, little by little, and melted away.

And now I (that was doomed to be my own undoing) instead of thanking that merciful G.o.d who had delivered us from such dire peril, must needs scowl upon this kindly sun and fall again to my black humours. For, the immediate dangers past, I began to ponder the future and inwardly to rage against that perverse fate the which was driving me whither it would. So, crouched chin on fist, scowling across these tempestuous waters (for though the wind was fallen the seas ran very high) within myself I cursed Adam Penfeather and all his works.

"You are hungry, Martin!" Turning about I beheld my companion sitting up regarding me with eyes that belied her solemn mouth.

"How should you know this?"

"You frown, Martin! Though the storm is done and we alive, yet you frown! Have patience and you shall eat and sleep."

"I want neither one nor other!" I began.

"And you are wet, Martin!"

"'Tis no matter!"

"And cold!"

"The sun shall warm me."

"So you shall eat, and lie here i' the suns.h.i.+ne, and sleep!" And away she goes to vanish under the dripping pent-house forward (the which had served its purpose admirably well) whiles I, perceiving the waves subsiding and the wind blowing steady and fair, laid our course due south-westerly again, and las.h.i.+ng the helm, went forward to shake out the reefs, finding it no easy task what with the stiffness of my cramped limbs and the pitching of the boat; howbeit, 'twas done at last but, coming back, I tripped across a thwart and fell, cursing.

"Are you hurt?" she questioned, stooping over me; whereupon (for very shame) I turned my back answering short and ungraciously, and sat frowning like the sullen rogue I was whiles she busily set forth the wherewithal to break our fast, and singing softly to herself.

"I told you I was an ill rogue and rough!" says I, bitterly.

"Why so you did," says she, meeting my scowl with her wide, calm gaze.

"Also you are hungry, and the food is unspoiled despite the storm--come and eat!"

So I ate (though with mighty ill grace) and found little savour in the food for all my hunger; but she waited on my wants with heedful care, my surliness notwithstanding.

"Whose was the hand set this boat adrift, think you?" says I suddenly.