my ship, Master Conisby, you eat the food my
money hath paid for! Doth this suffice your foolish, stubborn pride?"
Here, finding nought to say, I scowled at my fetters and held my peace,
whereat she sighed a little, as I had been some fretful, peevish child:
"Why are you here in my ship?" she questioned patiently. "Was it for
vengeance? Tell me," she demanded, "is it that you came yet seeking
your wicked vengeance?"

"Mine is a just vengeance!"

"Vengeance, howsoever just, is God's--leave it unto God!" At this I
was silent again, whereupon she continued, her voice more soft and
pleading: "Even though my father had ... indeed ... wronged you and
yours ... how shall his death profit you--?"

"Ha!" I cried, staring up at her troubled face, "Can it be you know
this for very truth at last? Are you satisfied of my wrongs and know
my vengeance just? Have ye proof of Sir Richard's black
treachery--confess!" Now at this her eyes quailed before my look and
she shrank away.

"God forgive him!" she whispered, bowing stately head.

"Speak!" says I, fiercely. "Have ye the truth of it at last?"

"'Tis that bringeth me here to you, Martin Conisby, to confess this
wrong on his behalf and on his behalf to offer such reparation as I
may. Alas! for the bodily sufferings you did endure we can never
atone, but ... in all other ways--"

"Never!" says I, scowling. "What is done--is done, and I am--what I
am. But for yourself his sin toucheth you no whit."

"How?" cried she passionately. "Am I not his flesh--his blood? 'Twas
but lately I learned the truth from his secret papers ... and ... O
'twas all there ... even the price he paid to have you carried to the
plantations! So am I come pleading your forgiveness for him and for me
... to humble myself before you ... see thus ... thus, upon my knees!"

Now beholding all the warm beauty of her as she knelt humbly before me,
the surge and tumult of her bosom, the quiver of her red lips, the
tearful light of her eyes, I was moved beyond speech, and ever she
knelt there bowed and shaken in her mute abasement.

"My Lady Joan," said I at last, "for your pure self I can have nought
to forgive--I--that am all unworthy to touch the latchet of your shoe
... Rise, I pray."

"And for--my father?" she whispered, "Alas, my poor, miserable father--"

"Speak not of him!" I cried. "Needs must there be hate and enmity
betwixt us until the end." So was silence awhile nor did I look up,