The Lady and the Pirate

"I shall need none."

"Ah, but you will! It belikes me much, fair maid, to disport me at

ease this very eve, here on the deck, under the moon, and to hear you

yourself and none other, fairest of all my captives, touch the lute,

or whatever you may call it, to that same air you and I, fair maid,

heard long ago together at a lattice under the Spanish moon. A swain

touched then his lute, or whatever you may call it, to his Dulcinea.

Here 'tis in the reverse. The fair maid, having no option, shall touch

the lute, or whatever you call it, to John Doe, Black Bart, or

whatever you may call him; who is her captor, who feels himself about

to love her beyond all reason; and who, if he find no relief,

presently, in music--which is better than drink--will go mad, go mad,

and be what he should not be, a cruel master; whereas all he asks of

fate is that he shall be only a kind captor and a gentle friend."

Her head held very high, she passed me without a word and threw open

the door of her suite.

... And that night, that very night, that very wondrous, silent,

throbbing night of the Sabbath and the South, when all the air was as

it seemed to me in saturation, in a suspense of ecstasy, to be broken,

to be precipitated by a word, a motion, a caress, a note ... that

night, I say, as I sat on the forward deck alone, I heard, far off and

faint as though indeed it were the lute of Andalusia, the low, slow,

deep throb of a guitar!... My whole heart stopped. I was no more

than a focused demand of life. Reason was gone from me, not intellect

but emotion--that is its basic thing after all, emotion born on earth

but reaching to the stars.... I listened, not hearing.... It was the

air we had heard long ago, a love song of old Spain, written, perhaps,

before DeSoto and his men perished in these very bayous and forests

that now shielded us against all tumult, all turmoil, all things

unhappy or unpleasant. The full tide of life and love swept through my

veins as I listened.

I rose, I hastened. At her door I paused. "Helena!" I called

raucously. "Helena." And she made no reply. "Helena," I called again.

"It was the same old air. This is Spain again! Ah, I thank you for

that same old air. Helena, forgive me. May I come in--will you come

out?"

I halted. A cold voice came from the companionway door. "You have a

poor ear for music, John Doe. It is not the same. Do you think I would

take orders from you, or any other man?"