As has happened before now to women, her very weakness saved her in extremity.  William Udy, clambering heavily over the ship’s side, found her leaning against the deck-house, with a face as white as the painted boards against which her palm rested.

“What be I to do, ma’am?” he inquired, after a pause, and then added slowly, “Beggin’ your pardon, but be you taken unwell?”

“Yes,” she panted, speaking very faintly, “I was over there—­by the bulwarks, and suddenly—­I felt queer—­a faintness—­I looked over and saw you—­I called the first person I saw.  I wanted help.”

William Udy was puzzled.  He had not noticed any pallor in the face that had looked down on him from the ship’s side.  On the contrary, he seemed to remember that it struck him as remarkably fresh and rosy.  But he saw no reason for doubting he had been mistaken.

“Can I do aught for ’ee?  Fetch a doctor?”

“If you wouldn’t mind helping me down—­down to my cabin—­”

William took her arm gently and led her aft to the companion ladder.  At the top of it she put out a hand vaguely and closed her eyes.

“I don’t think,” she murmured, “that I can walk.  My head is going round so.  Could you—­would it be too heavy—­if you carried me?”

At any other time William would have considered this a good joke.  As it was he took her up like a feather in his arms and carried her down to the cabin.  There he set her down on the sofa and was about to withdraw, blushing.  He was a very shy youth and had never carried a woman before, let alone one who was his superior in station.

“Thank you,” she said in a voice that was little above a whisper.  “How easily you carried me.  It’s plain to see you’re a married man.”

William started.  “There you’re wrong, ma’am, pardon me for sayin’ it.”

“No?  You were so gentle:  so gentle although so big”—­she smiled faintly.  “Would you mind stepping to the cupboard there and pouring me out a wineglassful of sherry?  It’s in the decanter just inside.”

William poured out a glassful and set it on the table in front of her.  She put it to her lips, and having scarcely moistened them, set it down again.

“A glass for yourself,” she said.  “Come now—­do!  I see you are shocked at the number of bottles I keep here.  But they were my husband’s.  He died, you know, a week after we came into harbour.”

William’s face worked to express mute sympathy.

“It’s a fearful responsibility,” she went on, “being left alone like this with a vessel to look after, and all his property waiting over there, on the other side of the water; and I daresay the lawyers, there, waiting, too, to take advantage of me.  I think it’s having all this on my mind that makes my head so giddy at times. . .”

William stood opposite to her, and thought.  It is not known at what moment the brilliant idea struck him, that as a husband he might be a tower of strength to the fragile young creature on the sofa.  His comrades after waiting some time for him began their chant again—­