The first question which had flashed into everybody’s mind was, What had led to this sudden attack?  Had they been betrayed? and if so, Who had betrayed them?  Could it be Jonathan?  Though the thought was at once negatived, no other outsider knew of their intended movements.  Of course the matter had been discussed—­as all matters were discussed and voted for or against—­among the crew; but to doubt either of them was to doubt one’s self, and any fear of betrayal among themselves was unknown.  The amount of baseness such a suspicion would imply was too great to be incurred even in thought.  What, then, could have led to this surprise?  Had their movements been watched, and this decoy of the cutter only swallowed with the view of throwing them off their guard?

Adam was lost in speculation, from which he was aroused by the door being softly opened and Joan coming in.  “Why, Adam, I thought to find ’ee in bed,” she said.  “Come, now, you must be dreadful tired.”  Then, sitting down to loosen her hood, she added with a sigh, “I stayed down there so long as I could, till I saw ’twasn’t no good, so I comed away home and left ’em.  ’Tis best way, I b’lieve.”

“I knew ’twas no good your going,” said Adam hopelessly.  “I saw before I left ’em what they’d made up their minds to.”

“Well, perhaps there’s a little excuse this time,” said Joan, not willing to blame those who were so dear to her; “but, Adam,” she broke out, while her face bespoke her keen appreciation of his superiority, “why can’t th’ others be like you, awh, my dear?  How different things ’ud be if they only was!”

Adam shook his head.  “Oh, don’t wish ’em like me,” he said.  “I often wish I could take my pleasure in the same things and in the same way that they do:  I should be much happier, I b’lieve.”

“No, now, don’t ’ee say that.”

“Why, what good has it done that I’m otherwise?”

“Why, ever so much—­more than you’ll ever know, by a good bit.  I needn’t go no further than my awnself to tell ’ee that.  P’r’aps you mayn’t think it, but I’ve bin kep’ fra doin’ ever so many things by the thought o’ ‘What’ll Adam say?’ and with the glass in my hand I’ve set it down untasted, thinkin’ to myself, ‘Now you’m actin’ agen Adam’s wish, you knaw.’”

Adam smiled as he gave her a little shake of the hand.

“That’s how ‘tis, you see,” she continued:  “you’m doin’ good without knawin’ of it.”  Then, turning her dark eyes wistfully upon him, she asked, “Do ’ee ever think a bit ’pon poor Joan while you’m away, Adam?  Come, now, you mustn’t shove off from me altogether, you knaw:  you must leave me a dinkey little corner to squeeze into by.”

Adam clasped her hand tighter.  “Oh, Joan,” he said, “I’d give the whole world to see my way clearer than I do now:  I often wish that I could take you all off to some place far away and begin life over again.”

“Awh!” said Joan in a tone of sympathy to which her heart did not very cordially respond, “that ’ud be a capital job, that would; but you ain’t manin’ away from Polperro?”