One day after another he loosed the ropes with practised touch, and the wind taught the sail with a gay rattle and the little Revenge flung off the steep street and the old sea-wall and the green cliffs of Clovelly, and first yards and then miles of rippling ocean lay between us and land, and we sailed away, we did not need to know or care where, with our fate for the afternoon in his reliable hands.  Little by little we forgot artificial distinctions in the out-of-doors, natural atmosphere, or that the man was anything but himself—­a self always simple, always right.  Looking back, I see how deeply I was to blame, to have been so blind, at my age, but the figure by the rudder, swinging to the boat’s motion, grew to be so familiar and pleasant a sight, that I did not think of being on guard against him.  Little as he talked, his moods were varied, grave or gay or with a gleam of daring in his eyes that made him, I think, a little more attractive than any other way.  Yet when a wind of seriousness lifted the still or impetuous surface, I caught a glimpse, sometimes, of a character of self-reliance, of decision as solid as the depths under the shifting water of his ocean.  There was never a false note in his gentle manner, and I grew to trust serenely to his tact and self-respect, and talked to him freely as I chose.  Which of course I should not have done.  But there was a temptation to which I yielded in watching for the likeness in his face, and in listening for a tone or two of his voice that caught my heart with the echo of a voice long silent.

One morning to our astonishment Cary sent up to break our engagement for the afternoon.  Something had happened so that he could not possibly get away.  But it was moonlight and warm—­would we not go out in the evening?  The idea seemed to me a little improper, yet very attractive, and Sally’s eyes danced.

“Let’s be bold and bad and go, Cousin Mary,” she pleaded, and we went.

A shower of moonlight fell across the sea and on the dark masses of the shore; it lay in sharp patches against the black shadows of the sail; it turned Sally’s bare, dark head golden, and tipped each splashing wave with a quick-vanishing electric light.  It was not earth or ocean, but fairyland.  We were sailing over the forgotten, sea-buried land of Lyonesse; forests where Tristram and Iseult had ridden, lay under our rushing keel; castles and towers and churches were there—­hark! could I not hear the faint bells in the steeples ringing up through the waves?  The old legend, half true, half fable, was all real to me as I sat in the shadow of the sail and stared, only half seeing them, at Sally standing with her hands on the rudder and Cary leaning over her, teaching her to sail the Revenge.  Their voices came to me clear and musical, yet carrying no impression of what they were saying.  Then I saw Sally’s little fingers slip suddenly, and Cary’s firm hand close over them, pushing the rudder strongly to one side.  His face was toward me, and I saw the look that went over it as his hand held hers.  It startled me to life again, and I sat up straight, but he spoke at once with quiet self-possession.