el head,
Mind your lights and mind your lead.
--Pilot-house Ditty.

For days he had been afraid of that incredible madness of his as a man
fears a nameless monster. But he was sure of his strength even while
admitting his weakness. He was confident that he had the thing securely
in leash.

Then all at once it happened!

Without preface of word or look he whirled and faced her, swept her
into his arms and kissed her. He did not attempt to absolve himself
or mitigate his offense by telling her that he loved her. He was
voiceless--he could not control his speech. He did not dare to show such
presumption as talk of love must seem to be to her. He knew he must not
speak of love; such proffer to her would be lunacy. But this greater
presumption, this blind capture of her in his arms--this was something
which he had not intended any more than a sane man considers flight to
the moon.

He did not understand; he had been himself--then, instantly, in time
measured by a finger-snap, he had become this wretch who seemed to be
somebody else.

He had ceased, for an insane moment, to be master of all his senses. But
he released her as suddenly as he had seized her, and staggered to the
door of the chart-room, turning his back on her and groaning in supreme
misery.

In that moment of delirium he had insulted his own New England sense of
decency and honor.

He was afraid to look back at her. With an agony of apprehension
he dreaded the sound of her voice. He knew well enough that she was
striving to get command of herself, to recover from her utter amazement.
He waited. The outrage must have incensed her beyond measure; the
silence was prolonged.

In the yacht's saloon below a violin sang its very soul out upon the
summer night, weaving its plaint into the soft, adagio rippling of a
piano's chords.

He searched his soul. The music, that distant, mellow phrasing of the
call of love, the music had unstrung him. While he paced the bridge
before her coming that music had been melting the ice of his natural
reserve. But he did not pardon himself because he had acted the fool.

He stared at the night framed in the door of the chart-house. Little
waves were racing toward him, straight from the moon, on the sea-line,
like a flood of new silver pouring from the open door of plenty!

But the appealing beauty of that night could not excuse the
unconscionable insult he had just offered her. He knew it, and sh