"Nay, 'tis long story."

"But why are you thus solitary, you that do so fear solitude, as I remember."

"When Adam marched away, I stayed to wait for you, Martin."

"For me?"

"Yes, Martin!"

"Were you not afraid?"

"Often," said she, clasping me tighter, "but you are come at last, so are my fears all past and done. And, more than the loneliness I feared lest you should come and find this poor ship all deserted, and lose hope and faith in G.o.d's mercy."

"Oh, my brave, sweet soul!" said I, falling on my knees to kiss her hands.

"Oh, G.o.d love you for this--had I found you not, I should have dreamed you dead and died myself, cursing G.o.d."

"Ah hush," said she, closing my lips with her sweet fingers. "Rather will we bless Him all our days for giving us such a love!"

And now having no will or thought to sleep, she sets about preparing supper, while I with scissors, razors, etc. (that she had brought at my earnest entreaty), began to rid my face of its s.h.a.ggy hair, and busied with my razor, must needs turn ever and anon for blessed sight of her where she flitted lightly to and fro, she bidding me take heed lest I cut myself. Cut myself I did forthwith, and she, beholding the blood, must come running to staunch it and it no more than a merest nick. And now, seeing her thus tender of me who had endured so many hurts and none to grieve or soothe, I came very near weeping for pure joy.

And now as she bustled to and fro, she fell silent and oft I caught her viewing me wistfully, and once or twice she made as to speak yet did not, and I, guessing what she would say, would have told her, yet could think of no gentle way of breaking the matter, ponder how I might, and in the end blurted out the bald truth, very sudden and fool-like, as you shall hear.

For, at last, supper being over (and we having eaten very little and no eyes for our food or aught in the world save each other) my lady questioned me at last.

"Dear Martin, what of my father?"

"Why, first," said I, avoiding her eyes, "he is dead!"

"Yes!" said she faintly, "this I guessed."

"He died n.o.bly like the brave gentleman he was. I buried him in the wilderness, where flowers bloomed, three days march back."

"In the wilderness?" says she a little breathlessly. "But he was in prison!"

"Aye, 'twas there I found him. But we escaped by the unselfish bravery and kindness of Don Federigo. So together we set out to find you."

"Together, Martin?"

"Yes, and he very cheery, despite his sufferings."

"Sufferings, Martin?"

"He--he halted somewhat in his walk--"

"Nay, he was strong, as I remember--ah, you mean they--had tortured him--"

"Aye," said I, dreading to see her grief. "Yet despite their devilish cruelties, he rose triumphant above agony of body, thereby winning to a great and n.o.ble manhood, wherefore I loved and honoured him beyond all men--"

"He was--your enemy--"

"He was my friend, that comforted me when I was greatly afraid; he was my companion amid the perils of our cruel journey, calm and undismayed, uncomplaining, brave, and unselfish to his last breath, so needs must I cherish his memory."

"Martin!" Lifting my head I saw she was looking at me, her vivid lips quivering, her eyes all radiant despite their tears, and then, or ever I might prevent, she was kneeling to me, had caught my hand and kissed it pa.s.sionately.

"Oh, man that I love--you that learned to--love your enemy!"

"Nay, my Damaris, 'twas he that taught me how to love him, 'twas himself slew my hatred!"

And now, drawing her to my heart, I told her much of Sir Richard's indomitable spirit and bravery, how in my blind haste I would march him until he sank swooning by the way, of our fightings and sufferings and he ever serene and undismayed. I told of how we had talked of her beside our camp fires and how, dying, he had bid me tell her he had ever loved her better than he had let her guess, and bethinking me of his letter at last, I gave it to her. But instead of reading it, she put this letter in her pocket.

"Come," said she, "'tis near the dawn, and you weary with your journey, 'tis time you were abed." And when I vowed I was not sleepy, she took my hand (as I had been a child) and bringing me into that had been Adam's cabin, showed me his bed all prepared. "It hath waited for these many weeks, dear Martin!" said she, smoothing the pillows with gentle hand.

"But we have so much to tell each other--"

"To-morrow!"

Hereupon she slipped past me to the door and stood there to shake admonishing finger:

"Sleep!" said she, nodding her lovely head mighty determined, "and scowl not, naughty child, I shall be near you--to--to mother you--nay, come and see for yourself." So saying, she took my hand again and brought me into the next cabin, a fragrant nest, dainty-sweet as herself, save that in the panelling above her bed she had driven two nails where hung a brace of pistols. Seeing my gaze on these, she shivered suddenly and nestled into my arm.

"Oh, Martin," said she, her face hid against me, "one night I seemed to hear a foot that crept on the deck above, and I thought I should have died with fear. So I kept these ever after, one for--them, and the other for myself."

"And all this you endured for my sake!" quoth I.

"And G.o.d hath sent you safe to me, dear Martin, to take care of me, so am I safe with nought to fright or harm me henceforth."

"Nothing under heaven," quoth I. Very gingerly she took down the pistols and gave them to me and, bringing me to the door, kissed me.

"Good night, dear heart!" said she softly. "G.o.d send you sweet dreams!"

Thus came I back to my cabin and laying by the pistols, got me to bed, and mighty luxurious, what with these sheets and pillows, and yet, or ever I had fully appreciated the unwonted comfort, I was asleep.

I waked to the sudden clasp of her soft arms and a tear-wet cheek against mine, and opening my eyes, saw her kneeling by my bed in the grey dawn.

"Oh, loved Martin," said she, "I love you more than I guessed because you are greater than I dreamed--my father's letter hath told me so much of you--your goodness to your enemy--how you wiped away his tears, ministered to his hurts, carried him in your arms. I have read it but now and--'tis tale so n.o.ble--so wonderful, that needs must I come to tell you I do love you so much--so much. And now--"

"You are mine!" said I, gathering her in my arms. "Mine for alway."

"Yes, dear Martin! But because I am yours so utterly, you will be gentle with me--patient a little and forbearing to a--very foolish maid--"

For answer I loosed her, whereupon she caught my hand to press it to her tender cheek, her quivering lips.

"Oh, Martin!" she whispered. "For this needs must I worship thee!" And so was gone.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

OF DREAMS