“If we miss the service for the unlading of the goods, and it be discovered, it may go amiss with us,” said I.

“Are you then afraid, Master Wingfield?” asked she with a glance of scorn, and a blush of shame at her own words, for she knew that they were false.

I felt the blood rush to my face, and I reined back my horse, and said no more.

“I pray you have the goods that you know of unladen at once, Captain Tabor,” said she, and she made a motion that would have been a stamp had she stood.

Calvin Tabor laughed, and cast a glance of merry malice at me, and bowed low as he replied: 

“The goods shall be unladen within the hour, Mistress,” said he, “and if you and the gentleman would rather not tarry to see them for fear of discovery—­”

“We shall remain,” said Mistress Mary, interrupting peremptorily.

“Then,” said Captain Calvin Tabor with altogether too much of freedom as I judged, “in case you be brought to account for the work upon the Sabbath, ‘The Golden Horn’ hath wings for such a wind as prevails to-day as will outspeed all pursuers, even should they borrow wings of the cherubim in the churchyard.”

I was glad that Mistress Mary did not, for all her youthfulness of temper, laugh in return, but answered him with a grave dignity as if she herself felt that he had exceeded his privilege.

“I pray you order the goods unladen at once, Captain Tabor,” she repeated.  Then the captain coloured, for he was quick-witted to scent a rebuff, though he laughed again in his dare-devil fashion as he turned to the sailors and shouted out the order, and straightway the sailors so swarmed hither and thither upon the deck that they seemed five times as many as before, and then we heard the hatches flung back with claps like guns.

We sat there and waited, and the bell over in Jamestown rang and the long notes died away with sweet echoes as if from distant heights.  All around us the rank, woody growth was full of murmurs and movements of life, and perfumes from unseen blossoms disturbed one’s thoughts with sweet insistence at every gust of wind, and always one heard the lapping of the sea-water through all its countless ways, for well it loves this country of Virginia and steals upon it, like a lover who will not be gainsaid, through meadows and thick woods and coarse swamps, until it is hard sometimes to say, when the tide be in, whether it be land or sea, and we who dwell therein might well account ourselves in a Venice of the New World.

I waited and listened while the sailors unloaded the goods with many a shout and repeated loud commands from the captain, and Mistress Mary kept her eyes turned away from my face and watched persistently the unlading, and had seemingly no more thought of me than of one of the swamp trees for some time.  Then all at once she turned toward me, though still her eyes evaded mine.

“Why do you not go to church, Master Wingfield?” said she in a sweet, sharp voice.