I shall never forget that dark ship’s deck, with no sound breaking the silence except the soft swirl of water alongside, the occasional flap of canvas aloft, and the creak of the wheel.  Dorothy was but a shrouded figure, as she sat wrapped in her blanket, and the only other object visible was the dim outline of the helmsman.  We seemed to be completely shut in between sea and sky, lost and forgotten.  Yet the memory of the tragedy this vessel had witnessed remained with me—­the helpless slaves who had suffered and died between decks; the dead sailors in the forecastle, their ghastly faces staring up at the beams above, and the horrible figure of Paradilla outstretched on the cabin divan.  I was a sailor and could not feel that any good fortune would come to us from such a death ship.  The memory brought to me a depression hard to throw off; yet, for her sake I pretended a cheerfulness I was far from feeling, and our conversation drifted idly into many channels.

This was the first opportunity we had enjoyed to actually talk with each other alone, and gradually our thoughts veered from the happenings of the strange voyage, and our present predicament, to those personal matters in which we were peculiarly interested.  I know not how it occurred, for what had passed between us in the open boat seemed more like a dream than a reality, yet my hand found her own beneath the blanket, and I dared to whisper the words my lips could no longer restrain.

“Dorothy,” I said humbly, “you were frightened last night.  I cannot hold you to what you said to me then.”

“You mean you do not wish to?  But I was not frightened.”

“They were honest words?  You have not regretted them since?”

“No, Geoffry.  Perhaps they were not maidenly, yet were they honest; why should I not have told you the truth?  I have long known my own heart, and yours, as well.”

“And you still repeat what you said then?”

“Perhaps I do not remember all I said.”

“I can never forget—­you said, ‘I love you.’”

She drew a quick breath, and for an instant remained silent; then her courage conquered.

“Yes, I can repeat that—­I love you.”

“Those are dear, dear words; but I ought not to listen to them, or believe.  I am not free to ask a pledge of you, or to beg you to trust me in marriage.”

“Is not that rather for me to decide?” she questioned archly.  “I give you my faith, Geoffry, and surely no girl ever had more reason to know the heart of a man than I. You have risked all to serve me, and I would be ungrateful indeed were I insensible of the sacrifice.  Yet do not think that is all—­gratitude for what you have done.  I did not need that to teach me your nature.  I make a confession now.  You remember the night I met you on deck, when you were a prisoner, and told you that you had become the property of Roger Fairfax?”

“I could never forget.”