moon brightened the world, the west pyramids of canvas above me
bellied taut, the cordage wrung a stirring whistle from the wind, the
silver spray cascaded on the weather deck. I watched the scene with
delight, drank in the living beauty of that ship, and felt the witchery
the _Golden Bough_ practiced upon sailors' minds steal over and possess
me. Aye, she was a ship! I was soon to curse my masters, and the very
day I was born, but never, after that night, did I curse the ship. I
loved her. I felt the full force that night of a hoary sea axiom,
"Ships are all right. 'Tis the men in them."

I was surprised not to see Captain Swope upon the poop. According to
the gossip I had heard at the Knitting Swede's, this eight to twelve
watch was Yankee Swope's favorite prowling time. But he did not
appear; indeed, he had not shown himself since he had so ignominiously
surrendered the deck to Newman. I was not disappointed. I shouldn't
have cared if he remained below the entire voyage.

But I did see the lady that watch. When Mister Lynch, and his
familiars (of whom more anon), had gone forward to a job, she suddenly
stepped out of the companion hatch and flitted aft towards me. Then,
when she was close enough to discern my features by the reflection from
the binnacle lights, she stopped. I heard a sort of gasping sigh that
meant, I knew, disappointment, and she moved over to the rail, and
stood staring at the sea.

I knew what was wrong. She had, in the darkness, mistaken my very
respectable bulk for Newman's gigantic body. She had expected to find
Newman at the wheel; she was eager for a private word with him.

I watched her, with my head half turned on my shoulder. Aye, but it
thrilled me, the sight of her! You will call me a romantic young fool,
but it was not that. It was no thrill of desire, no throb of passion
for her beauty, though she was fair enough, in all faith, as she stood
there in the moonlight. It was something bigger, something deeper, a
wave of sympathy and pity that surged through my being, a feeling I had
never before felt during my savage young life. A pretty pass, you say,
when the ignorant foc'sle Jack pities the captain's wife? Aye, but the
very beasts of the field might have pitied the wife of Yankee Swope.

Her body seemed so slender and childlike. Too fine and dainty to hold
the woe of a hell-ship, and, Heaven knew, what private sorrow besides.
She did not know I was observing he