Black Bartlemys Treasure

Hereupon, perceiving in it many charts and maps together with a plan of the island very well drawn, I thrust it into my bosom, and hearing my lady calling me, took pistol and bandolier and so to supper.

Thus amidst howling storm and tempest we sat down side by side to sup, very silent for the most part by reason of this elemental strife that raged about our habitation, filling the world with awful stir and clamour.

But in a while seeing her so downcast and with head a-droop I must needs fall gloomy also, and full of a growing bitterness.

"Art grieving for England?" says I at last, "Yearning for home and friends and some man belike that loves and is beloved again!"

"And why not, Martin?"

"Because 'tis vain."

"And yet 'twould be but natural."

"Aye indeed," says I gloomily and forgetting my supper, "for contrasting all you have lost, home and friends and love, with your present evil plight here in this howling wilderness, 'tis small wonder you weep."

"But I am not weeping!" says she, flushing.

"Yet you well may," quoth I, "for here are you at the world's end and with none but myself for company."

"Why, truly here is good cause for tears!" says she, flashing her eyes at me.

"Aye!" I nodded. "'Tis a pity Fate hath chosen you so ill a companion."

"Indeed and so it is!" says she, and turns her back on me. And so we sat awhile, she with her back to me and I gloomy and despondent hearkening to the howling of the wind.

"You eat no supper!" says I at last.

"Neither do you!"

"I am not hungry!"

"Nor I!"

Myself (speaking after some while, humbly): Have I angered you?

She: Mightily!

Myself: Aye, but how?

She: By your idle, foolish talk, for if I grow thoughtful sometimes why must you ever dream me repining against my lot? To-night, hearkening to this dreadful tempest I was full of gratitude to God that He had brought us to this safe harbourage and set me in your companionship. And if my heart cry out for England sometimes 'tis because I do love England. Yet my days here are too full of labour for vain grieving and my labour, like my sleep, is joy to me. And there is no man I love in England--or anywhere else.

Myself (and more humbly than ever): Why then I pray you forgive me, comrade.

At this she looks at me over her shoulder, frowning and a little askance.

"For indeed," says I, meeting this look, "I would have you know me ever as your comrade to serve you faithfully, seeking only your friendship and nought beyond; one you may trust unfearing despite my ungentle ways."