Those few words, sombrely spoken, checked her wild outburst as surely as a hand upon her mouth.  She stood gazing at him for a space in utter amazement, but gradually under his unchanging regard her look began to fail.  She turned at length with a little gasp, and sat down on the old horsehair sofa, huddling herself together as if she desired to withdraw herself from his observation.

He did not stir, and a long, long silence fell between them, broken only by the ticking of the grandfather-clock in the corner and the everlasting murmur of the sea.

The deep, warning note of the bell-buoy floated presently through the summer silence, and as if in answer to a voice Rufus moved at last and spoke.  “You’d better go, lass.  They’ll be wondering about you.  But don’t be afraid of me after this!  I swear—­before God—­I’ll give you no cause!”

She started a little at the sound of his voice, but she made no movement to go.  Her face was hidden in her hands.  She rocked herself to and fro, to and fro, as if in pain.

He stood looking down at her with troubled eyes, but after a while, as she did not speak, he moved to her side and stood there.  At last, slowly and massively, he stooped and touched her.

“Columbine!”

She made no direct response, only suddenly, as if his action had released in her such a flood of emotion as was utterly beyond her control, she broke into violent weeping, her head bowed low upon her knees.

“My dear!” he said.

And then—­how it came about neither of them ever knew—­he was on his knees beside her, holding her close in his great arms, and she was sobbing out her agony upon his breast.

It lasted for many minutes that storm of weeping.  All the torment of humiliation and grief, which till then had found no relief, was poured out in that burning torrent of tears.  She clung to him convulsively as though she even yet struggled in the deep waters, and he held her through it all with that sustaining strength that had borne her up safely against the Death Current on that night of dreadful storm.

Possibly the firm upholding of his arms brought back the memory of that former terrible struggle, for it was of that that she first spoke when speech became possible.

“Oh, why didn’t you leave me to die?  Why—­why—­why?”

He answered her in a voice that seemed to rise from the depths of the broad chest that supported her.

“I wanted you.”

She buried her face deeper that he might not see the cruel burning of it.  “So did he—­then.”

“Not he!” The deep voice held unutterable contempt.  “He wanted to make his fortune out of you, that’s all.  He didn’t care whether you lived or died, the damn’ cur!”

She shrank at the fierce words, and was instantly aware of the jealous closing of his arms about her.

“You aren’t going to break your heart for a dirty swab like that,” he said, with more of insistence than interrogation in his voice.  “Look you here, Columbine!  You’re too honest to care for a beast like that.  Why—­though I pulled him out of the quicksand and saved him from the sea—­I’d have wrung his neck if he’d stayed another day.  I would that.”