seemed to seek a form at my lips and then to perish without a
breath. But at last, with an effort, I shook myself free of my stupor. I
might never see her again, I told myself; this might be our latest
parting, there on that wretched deck, in that crowd of faces painted
with fear and fury, with the sullen sea about us which would so soon
divide us. Come what might come of it, I swore that I would say my say
and not carry the regret of a fool's silence to my grave. For though my
heart seemed to beat like the drums of a dozen garrisons, I made my way
across the slippery deck to where the girl stood, for the moment alone,
with the wind flapping her hair about and blowing her gown against her.
She was looking out at the island when I came close, and there was so
much noise aboard and beyond that she did not hear my coming till I
stood beside her, and called her name into her ear. Then she turned her
pale face to me, and small blame to her to look pale in those terrors;
but her eyes had all their brightness, and there was no sign of fear in
them or on her lips. I thought her more beautiful than ever as she stood
there, so calm in all that savage scene of ruin, so brave at a time when
stout men shook with fear.

'Marjorie,' I said, 'I want to tell you something. I hope in God's mercy
that we may meet again, but God alone knows if we ever shall. And so I
want to tell you that, whatever happens to me, sick or well, in danger
or out of it, I am your servant, and that your name will be in my heart
to the end.'

She had heard me in quiet, but there was a wonder in her face as she
listened to the words I stumbled over. In fear to be misunderstood, I
spoke again in an agony.

'Marjorie,' I said, 'dear Marjorie, I should never have dared to tell
you but for this hour. But I may never see you again, and I love you.'

And then I lost command of myself and my words, and begged her
incoherently to forgive me, and to think kind thoughts of me if this
were indeed farewell. She was silent for a moment, and there came no
change over her face. Then she said softly:

'Why do you tell me this now? Is there some new danger?'

I stared at her in wonder.

'Marjorie,' I cried, 'Marjorie, are you not going to leave the ship?'
She shook her head.

'I stay with Lancelot,' she answered quietly. 'It is an old promise
between us. Where he is I abide. That is our compact.'

I cannot find any words for the fulness of joy that flooded my heart as