Martin Conisby

So I will pass to a certain night, the moon flooding her radiance all about me and the world very hushed and still with nought to hear save the murmurous ripple and soft lapping of the incoming tide, and I upon my bed (very wakeful) and full of speculation and the problem I pondered this: Adam (and he so precise and exact in all things) had named to my lady a day for his return, which day was already long past, therefore it was but natural to suppose his desperate venture against this great fortified city a failure, his hardy fellows scattered, and his brave self either slain or a prisoner. What then of our situation, my dear lady's and mine, left thus solitary in a hostile country and little or no chance of ever reaching England, but doomed rather to seek some solitude where we might live secure from hostile Indians or the implacable persecution of the Spaniards. Thus we must live alone with Nature henceforth, she and I and God. And this thought filled me alternately with intoxicating joy for my own sake, since all I sought of life was this loved woman, and despair for her sake, since secretly she must crave all those refinements of life and civilisation as had become of none account to myself. And if Adam were slain indeed and England thus beyond our reach, how long must we wait to be sure of this?

Here I started to hear my lady calling me softly: "Art awake, dear Martin?"

"Yes, my Joan!"

"I dreamed myself alone again. Oh, 'tis good to hear your voice! Are you sleepy?"

"No whit."

"Then let us talk awhile as we used sometimes on our loved island."

"Loved you it--so greatly, Joan?"

"Beyond any place in the world, Martin."

"Why, then--" said I and stopped, lest my voice should betray the sudden joy that filled me.

"Go on, Martin."

"'Twas nought."

"Aye, but it was! You said 'Why, then.' Prithee, dear sir, continue."

Myself (sitting up and blinking at the moon): Why, then, if you--we--are--if we should be so unfortunate as to be left solitary in these cruel wilds and no hope of winning back to England, should you grieve therefor?

She (after a moment): Should you, Martin?

Myself (mighty fervently): Aye, indeed!

She (quickly): Why, Martin--pray why?

Myself (clenching my fists): For that we should be miserable outcasts cut off from all the best of life.

She: The best? As what, Martin?

Myself: Civilisation and all its refinements, all neighbourliness, the comforts of friendship, all security, all laws, and instead of these--dangers, hardship, and solitude.