“Forgive me,” she said; “it is my head.  It was injured, you know.”

Then he saw the bandage about her brow, and was very penitent.

“They did not tell me that you had been hurt, Benita,” he exclaimed in his light, refined voice, one of the stamps of that gentility of blood and breeding whereof all his rough years and errors had been unable to deprive him.  “They only told me that you were saved.  It is part of my ill-fortune that at our first moment of greeting I should give you pain, who have caused you so much already.”

Benita felt that the words were an apology for the past, and her heart was touched.

“It is nothing,” she answered.  “You did not know or mean it.”

“No, dear, I never knew or meant it.  Believe me, I was not a willing sinner, only a weak one.  You are beautiful, Benita—­far more so than I expected.”

“What,” she answered smiling, “with this bandage round my head?  Well, in your eyes, perhaps.”  But inwardly she thought to herself that the description would be more applicable to her father, who in truth, notwithstanding his years, was wonderfully handsome, with his quick blue eyes, mobile face, gentle mouth with the wistful droop at the corners so like her own, and grey beard.  How, she wondered, could this be the man who had struck her mother.  Then she remembered him as he had been years before when he was a slave to liquor, and knew that the answer was simple.

“Tell me about your escape, love,” he said, patting her hand with his thin fingers.  “You don’t know what I’ve suffered.  I was waiting at the Royal Hotel here, when the cable came announcing the loss of the Zanzibar and all on board.  For the first time for many a year I drank spirits to drown my grief—­don’t be afraid, dear—­for the first time and the last.  Then afterwards came another cable giving the names of those who were known to be saved, and—­thank God, oh! thank God—­yours among them,” and he gasped at the recollection of that relief.

“Yes,” she said; “I suppose I should thank—­Him—­and another.  Have you heard the story about—­how Mr. Seymour saved me, I mean?”

“Some of it.  While you were dressing yourself, I have been talking to the officer who was in command of your boat.  He was a brave man, Benita, and I am sorry to tell you he is gone.”

She grasped a stanchion and clung there, staring at him with a wild, white face.

“How do you know that, Father?”

Mr. Clifford drew a copy of the Natal Mercury of the previous day from the pocket of his ulster, and while she waited in an agony he hunted through the long columns descriptive of the loss of the Zanzibar.  Presently he came to the paragraph he sought, and read it aloud to her.  It ran: