“I know that, and have regretted it,” she interrupted.  “But not until now have I been able to correct your impression.”

“And you would actually have me speak with you as of your own class—­a free man, worthy to claim your friendship in life?”

“Yes,” frankly, her face uplifted.  “Why should it be otherwise?  It has been our fortune to meet under strange conditions, Captain Carlyle—­conditions testing us, and revealing the very depths of our natures.  Concealment and disguise is no longer necessary between us.  You have served me unselfishly, plunging headlong into danger for my sake.  I shudder at the thought of where I would be now, but for your effort to save me.  No man could have done more, or proved himself more staunch and true.  We are in danger yet, adrift here in the heart of this desolate sea, but such peril is nothing compared with what I have escaped.  I am glad, sincerely glad; I have prayed God in thankfulness, I feel that your skill and courage will bring us safely to land.  I am no longer afraid, for I have learned to trust you.”

“In all ways?”

“Yes; as gentleman as truly as sailor.  You possess my entire confidence.”

Cordial and earnest as these words were, they failed to yield me sufficient courage to voice the eager impulse of my heart.  There was a restraint, some memory of the past, perhaps, which fettered the tongue.  Yet I struggled to give my desire utterance.

“But do you understand fully?” I questioned anxiously.  “All I have done for you would have been done for any other woman under the same conditions of danger.  I claim no reward for that—­a plain duty.”

“I am sure that is true.”

“It is true, and yet different.  Such service to another would have been a duty, and no more.  But to be with you, aiding and protecting, has been a delight, a joy.  I have served Dorothy Fairfax for her own sake—­not as I would any other.”

“Did you not suppose I knew?”

Her glance flashed into mine through the star-gleam, with a sudden message of revealment.

“You knew—­that—­that it was you personally I served?”

“Of course I knew.  A woman is never unaware of such things.  Nor is there reason now—­here in this boat, with you as my only protector—­why I should pretend otherwise.  Neither of us know what the end may be; we may sink in these waters, or be cast ashore on a desolate coast to perish miserably, and it is no moment for concealment.  Now, if ever, I must tell you the truth.  I know you care for me, and have cared since first we met.  An interest no less fateful has led me to seek your acquaintance, and give you my aid.  Surely it is not unmaidenly for me to confess this when we face the chance of death together?”

“But,” I stammered, “I can scarcely believe you realize your words.  I—­I love you Dorothy.”

“And is it not also possible for me to love?”

“Possible—­yes!  But why should you?  Forgive me, but I cannot drive away memory of the gulf between us.  I would not dare speak such words of my own volition, they seem almost insult.  You are rich, with position and friends of influence, while I at best am but a merchant skipper, in truth a bond servant, penniless and disgraced.  In the eyes of the world I am not fit to touch the hem of your garment.”