Black Bartlemys Treasure

"No, Martin, have I not told you--"

"Why then," says I, "is it that you grow a-weary of my unlovely ways and would be quit of me?"

"No, Martin--only--only--" Here she fell silent and I saw her flush again.

"Or is it that you fear I might grow to love you--in time?"

"To--love me!" says she, very softly, and now I saw her red lips dimple to a smile as she stooped to cull a flower blooming hard by. "Nay!" says she lightly, "Here were a wonder beyond thought, Martin!"

"And wherefore should this be so great wonder?" I demanded.

"Because I am Joan Brandon and you are a man vowed and sworn to vengeance, Martin."

"Vengeance?" says I and, with the word, the staff snapped in my hands.

"Is it not so, Martin?" she questioned, wistfully. "Given freedom from this island would you not go seeking your enemy's life? Dream you not of vengeance still?"

"Aye, true," says I, "true! How should it be otherwise? Come, let us begone!" And casting away my broken staff, I got to my feet. But she, sitting there, lifted her head to view me with look mighty strange.

"Poor Martin!" says she softly. "Poor Martin!"

Then she arose, albeit slow and wearily, and we went down the hill together. Now as we went thus, I in black humour (and never a word) I espied one of those great birds I have mentioned within easy range, and whipping off my bow I strung it, and setting arrow on cord let fly and brought down my quarry (as luck would have it) and running forward had very soon despatched it.

"Why must you kill the poor thing, Martin?"

"For supper."

"Supper waiteth us at home."

"Home?" says I.

"The cave, Martin."

"We shall not reach there this night. 'Twill be dark in another hour and there is no moon, so needs must we bide here."

"As you will, Martin."

Hard beside the river that wound a devious course through the green was a little grove, and sitting here I fell to plucking the bird.

"Shall I not do that, Martin?"

"I can do it well enough."

"As you wish, Martin."

"You are weary, doubtless."

"Why, 'tis no great labour to cook supper, Martin."

"Howbeit, I'll try my hand to-night."

"Very well," says she and away she goes to collect sticks for the fire whiles I sat feathering the bird and found the flesh of it very white and delicate. But all the while my anger swelled within me for the folly I had uttered to her, in a moment of impulse, concerning love. Thus as she knelt to build the fire I spoke my thought.