“You are tired out, I am certain, darling,” he said.

The word “darling” made me start, but did not frighten me; it was the first time he had called me so, but I really could not refuse him the privilege of speaking thus.  However it may be, I maintained my reserve, and in the same tone as one replies, “No thanks, I don’t take tea,” I answered: 

“Oh, yes!  I am worn out.”

“I thought so,” he added, approaching the bed; “you can not keep your eyes open; you can not even look at me, my dear little wife.”

“I will leave you,” continued he.  “I will leave you; you need repose.”  And he drew still more closely to me, which was not natural.  Then, stretching out his hand, which I knew was white and well cared for:  “Won’t you give me a little shake of the hand, dear?  I am half asleep, too, my pretty little wife.”  His face wore an expression which was alarming, though not without its charm; as he said this, I saw clearly that he had lied to me like a demon, and that he was no more sleepy than I was.

However that may be, I was guilty of the fault, the carelessness that causes disaster, of letting him take my hand, which was straying by chance under the lace of the pillows.

I was that evening in a special condition of nervous sensibility, for at this contact a strange sensation ran through me from head to foot.  It was not that the Captain’s hand had the softness of satin—­I believe that physical sensations, in us women, have causes directly contrary to those which move men; for that which caused me such lively emotion was precisely its firmness.  There was something strong, manly, and powerful about it.  He squeezed my hand rather strongly.

My rings, which I have a fancy for wearing all at once, hurt me, and—­I really should not have believed it—­I liked it very much, perhaps too much.  For the first time I found an inexplicable, an almost intoxicating, charm in this intimate contact with a being who could have crushed me between his fingers, and that in the middle of the night too, in silence, without any possibility of help.  It was horribly delicious.

I did not withdraw my hand, which he kissed, but lingeringly.  The clock struck two, and the last sound had long since died away when his lips were still there, quivering with rapid little movements, which were so many imperceptible kisses, moist, warm, burning.  I felt gleams of fire flashing around me.  I wished to draw away my hand, but could not; I remember perfectly well that I could not.  His moustache pricked me, and whiffs of the scent with which he perfumed it reached me and completed my trouble.  I felt my nostrils dilating despite myself, and, striving but in vain to take refuge in my inmost being, I exclaimed inwardly:  “Protect me, Lord, but this time with all your might.  A drop of water, Lord; a drop of water!” I waited—­no appreciable succor reached from above.  It was not till a week afterward that I understood the intentions of Providence.