es staring into eyes
and never award to speak.

"Is it true?" says I at last, "God, Damaris--is it true?"

"Seems it so wonderful, dear Martin? Why, this love of mine reacheth
back through the years to Sir Martin, my little knight-errant, and hath
grown with the years till now it filleth me and the universe about me.
Have you forgot 'twas your picture hung opposite my bed at home, your
sword I kept bright because it had been yours? And often, Martin, here
on our dear island I have wept sometimes for love of you because it
pained me so! Nay, wait, beloved, first let me speak, though I do
yearn for your kisses! But this night is the greatest ever was or
mayhap ever shall be, and we, alone here in the wild, do lie beyond all
human laws soever save those of our great love--and, O Martin, you--you
do love me?"

Now when I would have answered I could not, so I sank to my knees and
stooping ere she knew, clasped and kissed the pretty feet of her.

"No, Martin--beloved, ah no!" cries she as it were pain to her, and
kneeling before me, set her soft arms about my neck. "Martin," says
she, "as we kneel thus in this wilderness alone with God, here and now,
before your lips touch mine, before your dear strong hands take me to
have and hold forever, so great and trusting is my love I ask of you no
pledge but this: Swear now in God's sight to renounce and put away all
thought of vengeance now and for ever, swear this, Martin!"

Now I, all bemused by words so unexpected, all dazzled as it were by
the pleading, passionate beauty of her, closed my eyes that I might
think:

"Give me until to-morrow--" I groaned.

"'Twill be too late! Choose now, Martin."

"Let me think--"

"'Tis no time for thought! Choose, Martin! This hour shall never come
again, so, Martin--speak now or--"

The words died on her lip, her eyes opened in sudden dreadful amaze,
and thus we remained, kneeling rigid in one another's arms, for, away
across Deliverance, deep and full and clear a voice was singing:

"There are two at the fore,
At the main are three more,
Dead men that swing all in a row;
Here's fine dainty meat
For the fishes to eat:
Black Bartlemy--Bartlemy ho!"

CHAPTER XLII

CONCERNING THE SONG OF A DEAD MAN

Long after the singing was died away I (like one dazed) could think of
nought but this accursed song, these words the which had haunted my
sick-bed and methought no more than the outcome of my own fevered
i