His closed fist was up to strike the man, who hung his head with bitterest shame and miserable self-reproach; but Sylvia came swift between the blow and its victim.

‘Charley, thou shan’t strike him,’ she said.  ’He is a damned scoundrel’ (this was said in the hardest, quietest tone) ’but he is my husband.’

‘Oh! thou false heart!’ exclaimed Kinraid, turning sharp on her.  ’If ever I trusted woman, I trusted you, Sylvia Robson.’

He made as though throwing her from him, with a gesture of contempt that stung her to life.

‘Oh, Charley!’ she cried, springing to him, ’dunnot cut me to the quick; have pity on me, though he had none.  I did so love thee; it was my very heart-strings as gave way when they told me thou was drowned—­feyther, and th’ Corneys, and all, iverybody.  Thy hat and t’ bit o’ ribbon I gave thee were found drenched and dripping wi’ sea-water; and I went mourning for thee all the day long—­dunnot turn away from me; only hearken this once, and then kill me dead, and I’ll bless yo’,—­and have niver been mysel’ since; niver ceased to feel t’ sun grow dark and th’ air chill and dreary when I thought on t’ time when thou was alive.  I did, my Charley, my own love!  And I thought thou was dead for iver, and I wished I were lying beside thee.  Oh, Charley!  Philip, theere, where he stands, could tell yo’ this was true.  Philip, wasn’t it so?’

‘Would God I were dead!’ moaned forth the unhappy, guilty man.  But she had turned to Kinraid, and was speaking again to him, and neither of them heard or heeded him—­they were drawing closer and closer together—­she, with her cheeks and eyes aflame, talking eagerly.

‘And feyther was taken up, and all for setting some free as t’ press-gang had gotten by a foul trick; and he were put i’ York prison, and tried, and hung!—­hung!  Charley!—­good kind feyther was hung on a gallows; and mother lost her sense and grew silly in grief, and we were like to be turned out on t’ wide world, and poor mother dateless—­and I thought yo’ were dead—­oh!  I thought yo’ were dead, I did—­oh, Charley, Charley!’

By this time they were in each other’s arms, she with her head on his shoulder, crying as if her heart would break.

Philip came forwards and took hold of her to pull her away; but Charley held her tight, mutely defying Philip.  Unconsciously she was Philip’s protection, in that hour of danger, from a blow which might have been his death if strong will could have aided it to kill.

‘Sylvie!’ said he, grasping her tight.  ’Listen to me.  He didn’t love yo’ as I did.  He had loved other women.  I, yo’—­yo’ alone.  He loved other girls before yo’, and had left off loving ’em.  I—­I wish God would free my heart from the pang; but it will go on till I die, whether yo’ love me or not.  And then—­where was I?  Oh! that very night that he was taken, I was a-thinking on yo’ and on him; and I might ha’ given yo’ his message, but I heard them speaking of him as knew him well; talking of his false fickle ways.  How was I to know he would keep true to thee?  It might be a sin in me, I cannot say; my heart and my sense are gone dead within me.  I know this, I’ve loved yo’ as no man but me ever loved before.  Have some pity and forgiveness on me, if it’s only because I’ve been so tormented with my love.’