you go out again in this yacht, for you would then remember the days in which I was cruel to you; but in a new yacht you would not remember that any more; and do you not think we would have many a pleasant, long summer day on the deck of her, and only ourselves, Gerty?  And you would sing the songs I first heard you sing, and I think the sailors would imagine they heard the singing of the mermaid of Colonsay; for there is no one can sing as you can sing, Gerty.  I think it was that first took away my heart from me.”

“But we can talk about all these things when I am on shore again,” said she, coldly.  “You cannot expect me to be very favorably disposed so long as I am shut up here.”

“But then,” he said, “if you were on shore you might go away again from me, Gerty!  The people would get at your ear again; they would whisper things to you; you would think about the theatres again.  I have saved you, sweetheart; can I let you go back?”

The words were spoken with an eager affection, and yearning; but they sank into her mind with a dull and cold conviction that there was no escape for her through any way of artifice.

“Am I to understand, then,” said she, “that you mean to keep me a prisoner here until I marry you?”

“Why do you speak like that, Gerty?”

“I demand an answer to my question.”

“I have risked everything to save you; can I let you go back?”

A sudden flash of desperate anger—­even of hatred—­was in her eyes; her fine piece of acting had been of no avail.

“Well, let the farce end!” said she, with frowning eyebrows.  “Before I came on board this yacht I had some pity for you.  I thought you were at least a man, and had a man’s generosity.  Now I find you a coward, and a tyrant—­”

“Gerty!”

“Oh, do not think you have frightened me with your stories of the revenge of your miserable chiefs and their savage slaves!  Not a bit of it!  Do with me what you like; I would not marry you if you gave me a hundred yachts!”

“Gerty!”

The anguish of his face was growing wild with despair.

“I say, let the farce end!  I had pity for you—­yes, I had!  Now—­I hate you!”

He sprang up with a quick cry, as of one shot to the heart.  He regarded her, in a bewildered manner, for one brief second; and then he gently said, “Good-night, Gerty!  God forgive you!” and he staggered backward, and got out of the saloon, leaving her alone.

See! the night is still fine.  All around this solitary bay there is a wall of rock, jet black, against the clear, dark sky, with its myriad twinkling stars.  The new moon has arisen; but it sheds but little radiance yet down there in the south.  There is a sharper gleam from one lambent planet—­a thin line of golden-yellow light that comes all the way across from the black rocks until it breaks in flashes among the ripples close to the side of the yacht.  Silence once more reigns around; only from time to time one hears the croak of a heron from the dusky shore.