Martin Conisby

She (softly): Aye, this methinks should break our hearts. Indeed, Martin, you do fright me.

Myself (bitterly): Why, 'tis a something desolate possibility!

She (dolefully): And alas, Adam cometh not!

Myself: Alas, no!

She: And is long overdue.

Myself: He marched on a perilous venture; aye, mighty hazardous and desperate.

She: Indeed, dear Martin, so desperate that I do almost pity the folk of Carthagena.

Myself (wondering): Then you do think he will succeed--will come sailing back one day?

She: Yes, Martin, if he hath to sail the ship back alone.

Myself: And wherefore believe this?

She: I know not, except that he is Adam and none like to him.

Myself: Yet is he only mortal, to be captured or slain one way or another. How if he cometh never back?

She: Why then, Martin--needs must I forego all thought of England, of home, of the comfortable joys of civilisation, of all laws, and instead of all these cleave to you--my beloved!

Myself: Damaris!

She: Oh, Martin, dear, foolish blunderer to dream you could fright me with tales of hardship, or dangers, or solitude when you were by, to think I must break my heart for home and England when you are both to me. England or home without you were a desert; with you the desert shall be my England, my home all my days, if God so will it.

Myself: Oh, loved woman, my brave, sweet Joan! And the laws--what of the laws?

She: God shall be our law, shall give us some sign.

Myself: Joan--come to me!

She (faintly): No! Ah, no!

Myself: Come!

She: Very well, Martin.

In a little I heard her light step, slow and something hesitant, and then she stood before me in her loveliness, wrapped about in my travel-stained boat-cloak; so came she to sink beside me on her knees.

"I am here, Martin," said she, "since I am yours and because I know my will, thine also. For sure am I that Adam will yet come and with him cometh law and England and all else; shall we not rest then for God's sign, be it soon or a little late, and I honour thee the more hereafter. If this indeed be foolish scruple to your mind, dear Martin, I am here; but if for this you shall one day reverence your wife the more--beloved, let me go!"

"Indeed--indeed, sign or no sign, thus do I love thee!" said I, and loosed her. And now, as she rose from my reluctant arms, even then, soft and faint with distance but plain and unmistakable came the boom of a gun.