all about us.

The meal done, and while she cleansed the things at a rill that
murmured hard by, I made up the fire (for after the heat of the day,
night struck chill) and by the time she came back I had the flame
crackling merrily. And now as she sat over against me on the stone, I
saw she had been weeping. And she, knowing I saw this, nodded her
head, scorning all subterfuge.

"I feared you had met with some mischance and lay hurt, Martin--or
worse--"

"You mean dead?"

"Aye, dead."

"Would it have mattered so much?"

"Only that I should have died likewise!"

"Because of the loneliness?" says I.

"Indeed," she sighed, staring into the fire, "because of the
loneliness."

"I serve some purpose, then, in the scheme of things?"

"Yes, Martin, you teach a woman how, even in this desolation, being
weak and defenceless she may trust to a man's honour and find courage
and great comfort in his strength. 'Twas foolish of me to be
horror-struck at your stained garments when you had been slaying that I
might eat."

"'Tis all forgot!" says I, hastily.

"And as for the murders on the ship--O Martin, as if you might ever
make me believe you had committed murder--or ever could. You that under
all your bitterness are still the same gentle boy I knew so long ago."

"And why should you be so sure of all this and I but what I am?" says
I, staring also into the fire.

"Mayhap because I am a woman with all a woman's instinct to know the
evil from the good."

Hereupon I began telling her of my exploration and describing the
wonders I had seen, as the fruit-trees and waterfall. Whereupon she
grew eager to explore the island so soon as she might. In a while I
arose, and drawing my knife turned where I knew was fern a-plenty.

"Where away?" she questioned, rising also.

"I must make you a bed."

"'Tis done, Martin, and yours also."

"Mine!" says I, staring. "How should you do all this?"

"With the old, rusty sword, Martin. Come and see!"

So she brought me to the cave, the moon flooding the place with its
pale radiance, and I espied a goodly bed of fern very neatly contrived,
in one corner.

"Bravely done!" says I.

"At least, Martin, 'twill be more easy than your bed of sand, and
methinks you shall have no ill dreams to-night."

"Dreams!" quoth I, and bethinking me of my last night's hateful visions
(and now beholding the beauty of her) I shivered.

"Are you cold?"

"No!"

"Why then, good-night, M