For a long while he wandered about the quays in a state of gloomy indecision, stopping every now and then to run his eye over the shipping, and his expression becoming darker still every time he did so.  From long practice he could tell by the appearance of every vessel what trade it was engaged in.  One was a coffee ship from Java; the next carried general cargo to all parts of the world; there was another that brought sugar and rum from the West Indies; and a fourth, that from its square build and breadth of beam must be a whaler returned from Spitzbergen.  He thought of their long voyages, and of the life without root or tie that was passed on board them—­was he to go back to that life again?  It depended on Elizabeth; and he had not much hope.

To his impatient nature delay was intolerable; and he had half made up his mind to have his fate decided at once.  In spite of his agitation, however, he could still think with coolness; and he knew that if he was to have any chance at all, he must wait until the first unfortunate impression had had time to pass off.

It had been a grey, foggy autumn day, but was now clearing, and blue patches of sky were coming out; and as he crossed the bridge the afternoon sun shone out, and sent a ray of glittering light against the window-panes of the street along the canal.  Up in Garvloit’s house Elizabeth was standing at the open window—­she, too, that day had needed to be alone with her thoughts.  Salve saw her, and stood still for a moment contemplating her as she leant out over the window ledge.

“That dear head shall be mine,” he burst out then passionately, and without knowing it, aloud; and the next moment he was at Garvloit’s door.

Elizabeth heard the door of the room open behind her; and when she saw Salve unexpectedly standing before her, she sank down for a moment on to a chair, but got up the next with a scared look, almost as if he was some hostile apparition.

“Elizabeth!” he said, gently, “are you going to send me out again into the world?  God only knows how I shall come back if you do.”

She did not answer, but stood looking at him with a rigid expression, and pale as death; she seemed to have forgotten to breathe, and to be only waiting for him to say more.

“Be my wife, Elizabeth,” he asked, “and I shall grow up into a good man again.  What a pitiful creature I have been without you, you have already seen sufficiently this morning.”

“God be my witness, Salve,” she answered, the tears bursting into her eyes with emotion which she tried to control, “you alone have always had my heart—­but I must first know in perfect truth what you think of me.”

“The same as I think of God’s angels, Elizabeth,” he said from his heart, and tried to take her hand.

“Do you know that I—­was once very nearly engaged to young Beck?” she asked, reddening, but with a steady look.  “I didn’t know my real self then, but was thinking only of folly and nonsense, until I was obliged to fly from it all.”