We lifted them out, and making a chair of our hands and wrists, carried them up to Vellingey; leaving the others in the boat, now for an hour well above reach of the tide.  And here I must tell of something that happened on the way:  the first sign of Obed’s madness, as I may call it.  All of a sudden he stopped and panted, from the weight of our load, I supposed.  “Dom,” he said, “I believe that nine men out of ten would kiss her!”

I told him not to be a fool, and we walked on.  In the town-place we happened on the shepherd, Reuben Santo, and sent him off for help, and to look after the frozen people in the boat.  The sight of us at the door nearly scared Selina into her grave:  but we allowed her no time for hysterics.  We laid the pair on a blanket before the open fire, and very soon Obed was trying to force some warm milk and brandy between the girl’s lips.  I think she swallowed a little:  but the first time she opened her eyes was when one of the lambs (which everyone had neglected for twenty minutes or so) tottered across the kitchen on his foolish legs and began to nuzzle at her face.  Obed at the moment was trying to disengage the dead man’s arms.  A thought struck Selina at once.  “Put the lamb close against her heart,” she said.  “That’ll warm her more than any fire.”

So we did, making the lamb lie down close beside her; and it had a wonderful effect.  In less than half-an-hour her pulse grew moderately firm and she had even contrived to speak a word or two, but in Norwegian, which none of us understood.  Obed by this time had loosened the dead man’s arms; and we thought it best to get her upstairs to bed before the full sense of her misfortune should afflict her.  Obed carried her up to the spare-room and there left her to Selina; while I saddled horse and rode in to Truro, for Doctor Mitchell.

Much of what followed is matter of public knowledge.  Our folks carried the dead Norwegians up to Church-town, including one of the two that had fallen overboard (the next tide washed him in; the other never came to land); and there buried them, two days later, in separate graves, but all close together.  The boat being worthless, we sawed it in two just abaft the mast and set the fore-part over the centre grave, which was that of Captain Pedersen, the young man we had carried up with Margit.  The mast rotted and fell, some years ago, although carefully stayed:  but the boat, with the names painted on it, remains to this day.  Also we set up a small wooden cross by each man’s grave, with his name upon it.  Margit was able, from our description, to plan out the right name for each.

On the third day an interpreter came over from Penzance.  Margit could not yet leave her bed:  and before he stepped up to question her, I took him aside and showed a small Norwegian Bible we had found in the pocket of the seaman’s jacket to which she owed her life.  On the first page was some foreign writing which I could not make out.  The interpreter translated it:  first the names “Margit Hansen to Nils Pedersen”:  and after them, this strange verse from the Song of Solomon—­strange, I mean, to find written in such a place—­“Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth:  for thy love is better than wine.”