Part 17 (1/2)

He took her in his arms, and her body seemed to be some light envelope in which a great turmoil of spirit beat, as a wild bird beats against a cage.... He could hardly hold her body so much was her tortured sobbing.... So much did what was within wheel and beat, beat and wheel, in unendurable panic. Her voice murmured in his wet shoulder:

”_Pauvre vielle sote!_ O Shane, Shane ... _pauvre vielle sote!”_ ...

-- 12

Above him, to starboard, he could hear the churning of the tug that was to take them from the docks to the open sea. Overhead the pilot was stamping impatiently. Forward the mate was roaring like a bull:

”Where is that d.a.m.ned apprentice? Tell him to lay aft and bear a hand with the warps.”

In a minute or so he would have to go on the p.o.o.p and give orders to let go and haul in. The tug was blowing, ”Hurry up....” He ought to be on deck now.... He hated to go up ... he hated to see the last of Ma.r.s.eilles ... he would never see Ma.r.s.eilles again....

Was all ready? Yes, all was ready. Cargo, supplies, sea-chest, everything for the long voyage he had decided--had to decide--on at the last minute. Forward across the Atlantic to where the sou'east trades blew, and then south'ard reaching under all sail--the fleecy clouds, the bright constellations of the alien pole, the strange fish-like birds, the flying-fish, the bonita, the albacore; the chill gust from the River Plate; the roar of the gales of the forties; the tremendous fight around the Horn, with a glimpse of land now and then as they fought for easting--the bleak rocks of Diego Ramirez and the Iledefonsos, and perhaps the blue ridge of Cape Horn, or of the False Cape; then, northward to Callao ... anywhere, everywhere ... new seas, new lands, new cities ... but never again Ma.r.s.eilles....

And he would never see her again, _La Mielleuse_--couldn't if he wanted to ... never again ... irrevocable.... On that pillow she had laid her head, her dark darling head!... And last night he had seen it for the last time, dark, smiling in sleep, on a snowy pillow.... He remembered as he might remember a strange pantomime.... His going to his coat for--what he had there ... the silent tiptoe ... the gentle raising of her left arm, as she smiled in her sleep ... the sudden weakness at her soft warm beauty ... the decision.... Of course he had done right!... Of course!... Of course!...

Overhead the pilot stamped on the deck in a flurry of impatience. The tug wailed in irritation. He must get on deck....

He threw one last glance around.... He had everything he needed for himself.... Nothing lacking.... His eyes paused for a moment on his desk. Wait! Where was the dagger? Prince Charles's dagger?

He gripped himself in fright. Was he going--had he gone--mad? He knew where that was ... he knew ... he knew.... It was--

”Ogh!” A flash of horror went over him.... But he had done right ... of course he had done right....

”All's ready, sir,” the mate called in to his cabin.

”Yes?...”

”Man, you're no' ill?” the mate looked at him, queerly.

”Of course I'm not ill.” He swung on deck. ”All right? Let go aft, then, and haul in. Tug a little westward: a little more westward. Hard a port, Mr. McKinstry. All right! Let go all, for'a'd.... She's off....”

PART FOUR

THE WRESTLER FROM ALEPPO

-- 1

”_Ya Zan_,” came his wife's slow grave voice, ”O Shane, when your s.h.i.+p is in trouble, or does not go fast, do the pa.s.sengers beat you?”

”Of course not,” Campbell laughed. ”What put that in your little head?”

”When I went with my uncle, Arif Bey, on the pilgrimage to Mecca--Arif was a Moslem that year”--she bit the thread of the embroidery she was doing with her little sharp teeth, _tkk!_--”our s.h.i.+p anch.o.r.ed for the night in _Birkat Faraun_--Pharaoh's Bay. In the morning it would not move, so the Maghrabi pilgrims beat the captain terribly. And once at Al-Akabah, when the captain lost sight of sh.o.r.es for one whole long day, the Maghrabis beat him again. They said he should have known better.

Don't--don't they ever beat you, _ya Zan_?”

”Not yet, Fenzile. They only beat bad skippers.”

”But our _Rais_ was a good sailor. He must have been a good sailor, Zan.