Early next morning, having bathed me in the pool and breakfasted with my companion on what remained of our goat's-flesh, I set to work to build me a fireplace in a fissure of the rock over against the little valley and close beside a great stone, smooth and flat-topped, that should make me an anvil, what time my companion collected a pile of kindling-wood. Soon we had the fire going merrily, and whilst my iron was heating, I chose a likely piece of wood, and splitting it with the hatchet, fell to carving it with my knife.
"What do you make now, Martin?"
"Here shall be a spoon for you, 'twill help you in your cooking."
"Indeed it will, Martin! But you are very skilful!"
"Nay, 'tis simple matter!" says I, whittling away but very conscious of her watchful eyes: "I have outworn many a weary hour carving things with my knife. Given time and patience a man may make anything."
"Some men!" says she, whereat I grew foolishly pleased with myself. The wood being soft and dry and my knife sharp the spoon grew apace and her interest in it; and because it was for her (and she so full of pleased wonder) I elaborated upon it here and there until, having shaped it to my fancy, I drew my iron from the fire and with the glowing end, burned out the bowl, scraping away the charred wood until I had hollowed it sufficiently, and the spoon was finished. And because she took such pleasure in it, now and hereafter, I append here a rough drawing of it.
(Drawing of a spoon.)
"'Tis wonderful!" cries she, turning it this way and that. "'Tis admirable!"
"It might be better!" says I, wishing I had given more labour to it.
"I want no better, Martin!" And now she would have me make another for myself.
"Nay, mine can wait. But there is your comb to make."
"How shall you do that, Martin?"
"Of wood, like the Indians, but 'twill take time!"
"Why then, it shall wait with your spoon, first should come necessities."
"As what?"
"Dear Heaven, they be so many!" says she with rueful laugh. "For one thing, a cooking-pot, Martin."
"There is our turtle-shell!" says I.
"Why, 'tis very well, Martin, for a turtle-shell, but clumsy—a little. I would have a pan—with handles if you could contrive. And then plates would be a good thing."
"Handles?" says I, rubbing my chin. "Handles—aye, by all means, a pan with handles, but for this we must have clay."
"And then, Martin, platters would be useful things!"
"So they will!" I nodded. "These I can fashion of wood."
"And then chairs, and a table, Martin."
"True!" says I, growing gloomy. "Table and chairs would be easy had I but a saw! I could make you shelves and a cupboard had I but fortuned to find a saw instead of this hatchet."
"Nay, Martin," says she, smiling at my doleful visage. "Why this despond? If you can make me so wondrous a spoon with nought but your knife and a piece of driftwood, I know you will make me chairs and table of sorts, saw or no, aye, if our table be but a board laid across stones, and our chairs the same."
"What more do we need?" says I, sighing and scowling at my hatchet that it was not a saw.
"Well, Martin, if there be many goats in the island, and if you could take two or three alive, I have been thinking we might use their milk in many ways if we had pans to put the milk in, as butter and cheese if you could make me a press. Here be a-plenty of ifs, Martin, and I should not waste breath with so many if you were not the man you are!"
"As how?" I questioned, beginning to grind the hatchet on a stone.
"A man strong to overcome difficulty! And with such clever hands!"
Here I ground my hatchet harder than before, but scowled at it no longer.
"And what more would you have?" I questioned.
"If you could make our front door to open and shut?"
"That is easily done! And what else beside?"
"Nay, here is enough for the present. We are like to be very busy people, Martin."
"Why, 'twill pass the time!" says I.
"And work is a very good thing!" quoth she thoughtfully.
"It is!" says I, grinding away at my hatchet again.
"O Martin!" sighs she after awhile, "I grow impatient to explore our island!"
"And so you shall so soon as you are strong enough."
"And that will be very soon!" says she. "The sea-water is life to me, and what with this sweet air, I grow stronger every day."
"Meantime there is much to be done and here sit I in idleness."
"Nay, you are sharpening your axe and I am talking to you and wondering what you will make next?"
"A lamp!" says I.
"How, Martin?"
"With a shell, the fat of our goat rendered down, and cotton from my shirt."
"Nay, if you so yearn for a lamp I can do this much."
"Good!" says I, rising. "Meantime I'll turn carpenter and to begin with, try my hand at a stool for you."
"But if you have no saw, Martin—?"
"I will make me a chisel instead." Crossing to the fire I found my iron red-hot, and taking it betwixt two flat pieces of wood that served me for tongs I laid it upon my stone anvil, and fell forthwith to beating and shaping it with the hammer-back of my hatchet until I had beaten out a blade some two inches wide. Having cooled my chisel in the brook I betook me to sharpening it on a stone moistened with water, and soon had wrought it to a good edge. I now selected from my timber a board sufficiently wide, and laying this on my anvil-stone began to cut a piece from the plank with hammer and chisel, the which I found a work requiring great care, lest I split my wood, and patience, since my chisel, being of iron, needed much and repeated grinding. Howbeit it was done at last, and the result of my labour a piece of wood about two feet square, and behold the seat of my stool!
Now was my companion idle for, while all this is a-doing, she sets the turtle-shell on the fire with water and collops of meat cut with my knife, and, soon as it simmers, breaks into it divers herbs she had dried in the sun; and so comes to watch and question me at my work, yet turning, ever and anon, to stir at the stew with her new spoon, whereby I soon began to snuff a savour methought right appetising. As time passed, this savour grew ever more inviting and my hunger with it, my mouth a-watering so that I might scarce endure, as I told her to her no small pleasure.
"Had I but a handful of salt, Martin!" sighs she.
"Why, comrade," says I, pausing 'twixt two hammer-strokes, "Wherefore this despond? If you can make stew so savoury and with nought but flesh of an old goat and a few dried herbs, what matter for salt?" At this she laughed and bent to stir at her stew again.
"There's plenty of salt in the sea yonder," says she presently.
"True, but how to come at it?"
"How if we boiled sea-water, Martin?"
"'Tis method unknown to me," says I, whittling at a leg of my stool, "but we can try."
And now in the seat of my stool I burned three good-sized holes or sockets, and having trimmed three lengths of wood, I fitted these into my socket-holes, and there was my stool complete. This done, I must needs call her from her cooking to behold it; and though it was no more than a square of roughish wood set upon three pegs, she praised and viewed it as it had been a great elbow chair and cushioned at that! Hereupon, puffed up with my success, I must immediately begin to think upon building us a table and chairs, but being summoned to dinner I obeyed her gladly enough. And she seated on her stool with me on the ground beside her and our turtle-shell dish before us, we ate with hearty good-will until, our hunger appeased, we fell to talk:
She: 'Tis marvellous how well I eat.
Myself: 'Tis the open air.
She: And the work, Martin. I have swept and dusted our cottage every hole and corner.
Myself: And found nothing left by its last tenant?
She: Nothing.
Myself: Had he but thought to leave us a saw our chairs and table would have been the better.
She: Then you will make them, Martin?
Myself: Aye—with time.
She: O 'tis bravely determined.
And here, for a moment, I felt the light touch of her hand on my shoulder.
Myself: They will be very unlovely things—very rough—
She: And very wonderful, Martin.
Myself: As to these goats now, 'tis an excellent thought to catch some alive and rear them.
She: I could make you excellent cheese and butter.
Myself: If I cannot run them down, I must contrive to wound one or two with arrows.
She: Why then, Martin, why not head your arrows with pebbles in place of iron points?
Myself: Good again! Or I might make a couple of gins, running nooses cut from the goat-skin. Howbeit, I'll try!
Herewith I arose and she also; then while she busied herself to scald out our turtle-shell, I set off to get my goat-skin. And finding it where I had left it hanging on a rock to dry, I fell a-cursing to myself for very chagrin; for what with the heat of the rock and the fierce glare of the sun, here was my goat-skin all shrivelled and hard as any board. So stood I scowling at the thing, chin in hand, and mightily cast down, and so she presently found me; and beholding my disconsolate look falls a-laughing.
"O Martin," says she, "'tis well there are some things you cannot do!" Saying which, she takes up the skin (albeit it smelt none too sweet) and away she goes with it into the cave. So I got me back to my carpentry, and selecting as many boards as I required for the width of my table, fell to cutting them to their proper lengths with hammer and chisel. And despite the shade of the mighty trees that girt us round and the soft wind that stirred, plaguy hot work I found it; but ever and anon she would bring me water, in one of our shells, cool from the spring, or would sit beside me as I laboured, aiding me in a thousand ways and showing herself vastly capable and quick-witted; thus as the sun sank westwards I had all my boards cut to an even size and two of the legs, though these, being square, I must needs chop asunder with the hatchet; yet I persevered, being minded to complete the work ere nightfall if possible.
"But where are your nails?" says she, where she sat watching.
"Our nails be too few and precious," quoth I, pausing to re-sharpen my hatchet. "I shall burn holes and pin our table together with pegs."
"Why then," says she readily, "let me split and shape you some pegs."
"Spoke like a true comrade!" says I impulsively. "Sometimes I do forget you are—"
"A woman?" she questioned as I paused; and I wondered to see her eyes so bright and shining. "Here is twice you have named me your comrade, Martin, and so will I be so long as I may. You sometimes would call me your comrade when we played together years ago, and 'tis a good name, Martin. Come now, teach me how I must make these pegs for our table." So I showed her how to split divers lengths of wood and shape these as round and smooth as might be, the while I bored holes for them with a heated iron; and thus we sat side by side at our labour, seldom speaking, yet I (for one) very well content.
At length, with her assistance, I began setting the framework of our table together, joining and pinning it with my wooden pegs driven mighty secure; last of all I laid the boards across and, pinning these in place, there was our table; and though it was rude and primitive so far as looks went, yet very serviceable we were to find it.
"Well, Martin," says she, when I had borne it into our cave, "methinks my shelves and cupboard are none so far to seek!" Here she falls to patting this unlovely thing and viewing it as it were the wonder of the world; and I must needs leap upon it to prove its strength.
"'Tis over-heavy," says I, giving it a final shake, "but 'twill serve!"
"To admiration!" says she, smoothing its rough surface with gentle hand. "To-night we will sup from it. Which reminds me that supper is to cook and our meat nearly all gone, Martin, though we have plenty of plantains left." So I told her I would go fetch what remained of the carcass after supper, so soon as the moon rose. And now whiles she bustled to and fro, I chose me a little piece of wood, and sitting where I might watch her at her labours, began to carve her the hair pin I had promised.
"Our third cave should make us a very good larder!" says she busy at her new table preparing supper.
"Aye."
"'Tis so marvellous cool!"
"Aye."
"I think, because the pool lieth above it."
"Mayhap!"
"Indeed, these are wonderful caves, Martin."
"They are."
"Who lived here before us, I wonder?"
"Penfeather, like as not."
"Why should you think this?"
"Well, that door yonder was never a carpenter's work, yet 'tis well made and furnished with a loop-hole, narrow and horizontal to give a lateral fire, the which I have seen but once ere this. Then again the timbers of this door do carry many marks of shot, and Adam Penfeather is no stranger to such, violence and danger, steel and bullet seem to follow him."
"Why so, Martin? He hath ever seemed a man very quiet and gentle, most unlike such rough sailor-men as I have seen hitherto."
"True," says I, "but 'neath this attitude of mind is a wily cunning and desperate, bloodthirsty courage and determination worthy any pirate or buccaneer of them all."
"Why, courage and determination are good things, Martin. And as for Master Penfeather, he is as I do know a skilful navigator and very well read, more especially in the Scriptures, and methought your friend?"
"For his own purposes!" quoth I.
"And what are these, Martin?"
At this I merely scowled at the wood I was carving, whereupon she questions me further:
"Master Adam is such a grave and sober man!"
"True!" says I.
"And so wise in counsel—"
"Say, rather, cunning!"
"Though to be sure he once had a poor man beaten cruelly."
"Wherein he was exactly right!" says I, grinding my teeth at memory of Red Andy. "Aye, there Penfeather was very right, this fellow was a vile and beastly rogue!"
"What dreadful thing had he done, Martin?"
"Stared at you!" says I, and stopped; and glancing up, found her regarding me with look mighty strange.
"Did you mind so much?" she questioned.
"No whit, madam. Why should I?"
"Aye, why indeed!" says she and turns to her cooking again and I to my carving, yet in a little, hearing her gasp, I glanced up to find her nigh stifled with her laughter.
"Ha, why must ye laugh, madam?" I demanded.
"O Martin!" says she, "And must this poor man be whipped—and for a mere look? And you so fierce withal! I fear there be many men do merit whipping if this be sin so great."
"I see no reason in your laughter, my lady!" quoth I, scowling up at her.
"Because you have no gift of laughter, my lord!" says she, and turns her back on me.
Here I came nigh to tossing her half-finished hairpin into the fire; but seeing her turn her head, carved on for very shame.
"And are you so very angry, Martin?" I bent to sharpen my knife. "I would that you might laugh yourself—once in a while, Martin." I tested my knife on my thumb. "You are always so grave, Martin, so very solemn and young!" Finding my knife still blunt, I went on sharpening it. Here and all suddenly she was beside me on her knees and clasps my knife-hand in hers. "Indeed I had no thought to anger you. Are you truly angered or is it only that you are so very—hungry?" Now here I glanced at her and beholding all the roguish mischief in her eyes, try how I might, I could not but smile too.
"A little of both, comrade!" says I. "Though verily I am a surly animal by nature."
"Indeed yes, Martin," she sighs, "yet a very comfortable animal, and though strong and fierce and woefully trying at times, a very gentle animal to such as know you."
"And do you know me so well?"
"Better than you think, O a great deal better! Because I am a woman. And now are we friends again?"
"Yes!" says I heartily, "Yes!" And away she goes to her cooking and I mighty glad I had not destroyed her hairpin, the which (my knife being sharp) I began to ornament with all sorts of elaborations. Presently back she comes, spoon in one hand, stool in the other, and sits to watch me at work.
"What do you make now, Martin?"
"A pin for your hair."
"Why, 'tis beautiful!"
"'Tis scarce begun yet!"
Here she must needs lavish all manner of praises on my skill until I came nigh cutting myself.
"How many will you make me, Martin?"
"As many as you will."
"Three should suffice."
"Why, you have a prodigious lot of hair."
"Do you think so, Martin?" says she, glancing down at the two great braids that fell over her bosom well-nigh to her waist. "'Twas well enough in England, but here 'tis greatly in my way and hampers me in my work. I had thought of cutting it off."
"Then don't!"
"Why not, Martin?"
"Well," says I, glancing at the nearest braid that showed coppery lights where the setting sun caught it. "Well, because—" and finding nought else to say I fell to my carving again and away she goes to her cooking.
"Martin," says she at last, "what do you know of Master Penfeather? Where did you fall in with him, and why is his life so threatened?"
"All by reason of Black Bartlemy's treasure!"
"Treasure!" says she; and back she comes and onto her stool, all in a moment. "Tell me of it, Martin!"
"'Tis a great treasure of gold and jewels in such."
"And who is Black Bartlemy?"
"A foul rogue of a pirate that was killed by a poor Spanish lady, and lieth buried with her under the great pimento tree on the beach yonder."
"O Martin!" says she, getting up that she might behold the tree, "O Martin, I knew, I knew 'twas an evil place! And the poor lady died too?"
"He killed her after she had stabbed him!"
"How do you know of this?"
"Adam Penfeather told me, he saw it done!" Hereupon she sits down and is silent awhile.
"And where is this great treasure?"
"On this island!"
"Here?" says she, starting to her feet again, "Here, Martin?"
"Aye, 'twas this I was despatched to secure, after I had been rapped over the head with a pistol-butt!"
"And how must you find it?"
"I never shall, the secret of it was in the packet I tossed overboard. Adam may find it himself an he will."
"And you have no desire for this treasure?"
"None in the world." And now (at her earnest solicitation) I told her all my association with Adam, of my haunted days and nights aboard ship and my suspicions of Tressady; only I spoke nothing of Adam's avowed intent to steal the "Faithful Friend" to his own purposes.
"O wonderful!" says she, when I had done, and then again, "O wonderful! So this was why we were cut adrift. Truly Master Penfeather hath quick and subtle wits."
"A guileful rogue—and very wily!" says I, clenching my fist.
"But wherein is he rogue, Martin?"
"How!" quoth I, "was it not a wicked, vile and most roguish act to set you adrift thus, to run the peril of sea and a desolate island—"
"What other could he do, Martin, and the ship good as taken by the mutineers? I heard them shouting—for me!" and here she shivered. "True, we have faced perils, have lost all our stores, but at least here am I—safe with you, Martin!" Saying which she rose and presently summoned me to our evening meal.
Having supped, I took beneath my arm my rusty sword (the which I had sharpened and burnished as well as I might) being minded to fetch what remained of our goat: but now she comes very earnest to go with me, and I agreeing readily enough, we set out together forthwith.
The moon was very bright, casting great, black shadows athwart our way, and now, once our familiar surroundings were left behind, we fell silent or spake only in low voices, awed by the universal hush of all things; for the night was very still and hot and breathless, not a leaf stirred and no sound to hear save the unceasing roar of the surf.
"Martin," says she, very softly, "here is a night of such infinite quiet that I grow almost afraid—"
"Of what?" I demanded, pausing to look down on her where she limped beside me. And then, 'twixt my teeth, "Is it me you fear?"
"Ah no, no!" cries she, slipping her hand within my arm, "Never, never that, you foolish Martin!" And here she looks at me with such a smile that I must needs glance otherwhere, yet methought her cheeks showed pale in the moonlight.
"Why then, what's amiss?" I questioned as we went on again and I very conscious of her hand yet upon my arm.
"I know not," she sighed, "'tis the stillness, mayhap, the loneliness and dreadful solitude, I feel as though some danger threatened."
"A storm, belike," says I, glancing round about us and across the placid sea.
"O Martin, 'tis hateful to be a woman! Why should I fear thus and no reason, 'tis folly!" And here she must pause to stamp her foot at herself. "And yet I do fear!" says she after a while. "O Martin, glad am I to have man like you beside me."
"Though another man might serve as well!" says I, "Of course?"
"Of course, Martin!"
At this I turned to scowl at the placid sea again.
"Any man?" says I at last.
"O Martin, no—how foolish under grow—'any man' might be evil as Black Bartlemy."
"I've heard I am much like him in looks."
"But then you are Martin and he was—Black Bartlemy."
After this we were silent a great while nor spoke again until we had traversed the whole length of Deliverance Sands, then:
"What manner of man?" I demanded.
Now at this she turns to look at me and I saw their lips quiver to a little smile that came but to vanish again.
"Something your sort, Martin, but without your gloom and evil tempers and one who could laugh betimes."
"Sir Rupert?" quoth I.
"He was very gay and merry-hearted!" says she.
"Yet suffered you to be beguiled and cast adrift to your great peril!"
"But stayed to do his share of the fighting, Martin."
"Ha!" says I scowling, "'Tis great pity we may not change places, he and I!"
"Would you change places with him—willingly, Martin?"
"Aye—I would so!" At this she whipped her hand from my arm and turned to frown up at me whiles I scowled sullenly on her.
"Why then, Master Conisby," says she, "I would you were anywhere but here. And know this—when you scowl so, all sullen-eyed, I know you for the very image of Black Bartlemy!"
Now as she spake thus, we were standing almost in the very shadow of that tall pimento tree beneath which Bartlemy had laughed and died, and now from this gloomy shadow came something that whirred by my ear and was gone. But in that moment I had swept my companion behind a rock and with sword advanced leapt straight for the tree; and there, in the half-light, came on a fantastic shape and closed with it in deadly grapple. My rusty sword had snapped short at the first onset, yet twice I smote with the broken blade, while arm locked with arm we writhed and twisted. To and fro we staggered and so out into the moonlight, and I saw my opponent for an Indian. His long hair was bound by a fillet that bore a feather, a feather cloak was about him, this much I saw as we strove together. Twice he broke my hold and twice I grappled him, and ever we strove more fiercely, he with his knife and I with my broken sword, and once I felt the searing pain of a wound. And now as we swayed, locked together thus, I saw, over his bowed shoulder, my lady where she crouched against a rock to watch us, and knowing myself hurt and my opponent very mighty and strong, great fear seized me.
"Run, Joan!" cried I, gasping, "O Damaris—run back!"
"Never, Martin—never without you. If you must die—I come with you!"
Mightily heartened by her voice I strove desperately to secure the hold I sought, but my antagonist was supple as any eel, moreover his skin was greased after the manner of Indian warriors, but in our struggling we had come nigh to the rock where crouched my lady and, biding my time, I let go my broken sword, and seizing him by a sort of collar he wore, I whirled him backward against the rock, saw his knife fly from his hold at the impact, felt his body relax and grow limp, and then, as my grasp loosened, staggered back from a blow of his knee and saw him leap for the lagoon. But I (being greatly minded to make an end of him and for good reasons) set after him hot-foot and so came running hard behind him to the reef; here, the way being difficult, I must needs slack my pace, but he, surer footed, ran fleetly enough until he was gotten well-nigh to the middle of the reef, there for a moment he paused and, looking back on me where I held on in pursuit, I saw his dark face darker for a great splash of blood; suddenly he raised one hand aloft, shaking it to and fro, and so vanished down the rocks. When I came there it was to behold him paddling away in a long piragua. Panting I stood to watch (and yearning for a bow or firelock) until his boat was hardly to be seen amid the moonlit ripples that furrowed the placid waters, yet still I watched, but feeling at hand touch me, turned to find my lady beside me.
"Martin," says she, looking up at me great-eyed, "O Martin, you are wounded! Come let me cherish your hurts!"
"Why, Damaris," says I, yet panting with my running, "You said this to me when I fought the big village boy years agone."
"Come, Martin, you are bleeding—"
"Nought to matter ... and I let him go ... to bring others like enough ... to-morrow I will make my bow ... nay ... I can walk." But now indeed sea and rocks grew all blurred and misty on my sight, and twice I must needs rest awhile ere we came on Deliverance Sands. And so homewards, a weary journey whereof I remember nothing save that I fell a-grieving that I had suffered this Indian to escape.
So came we to the plateau at last, her arm about me and mine upon her shoulders; and, angered at my weakness, I strove to go alone yet reeled in my gait like a drunken man, and so suffered her to get me into our cave as she would. Being upon my bed she brings the lamp, and kneeling by me would examine my hurt whether I would or no, and I being weak, off came my shirt. And then I heard her give a little, gasping cry.
"Is it so bad?" says I, finding my tongue more unready than usual.
"Nay, 'tis not—not your—wound, Martin.
"Then what?"
"Your poor back—all these cruel scars! O Martin!"
"Nought but the lash! They whipped us well aboard the 'Esmeralda' galleass." In a while I was aware of her soft, gentle hands as she bathed me with water cool from the spring; thereafter she made a compress of moss and leaves, and laying it to my wound bound it there as well as she might, the which I found very grateful and comforting. This done she sits close beside me to hush and soothe me to sleep as I had been a sick child. And I, lying 'twixt sleep and wake, knew I might not rest until I told her what I had in mind.
"Damaris," says I, "this night I lied to you ... I would not have another man in my place ... now or ... ever!" and so sank to sleep.
Next day I awoke early and my wound very painful and troublesome; this notwithstanding, I presently got me out into the early sunshine and, to my wonder, found the fire already lighted and no sign of my companion. Hereupon I fell to shouting and hallooing, but getting no answer, sat me down mighty doleful, and seeing her stool where it stood straddled on its three legs I cursed it for its unsightliness and turned my back on it. And now crouched in the sunlight I grew mightily sorry for myself thus solitary and deserted, and the hurt in my shoulder all on fire. And in a little, my self-love gave place to a fretful unease so that I must needs shout her name again and again, listening for sound of her voice, for some rustle to tell me she was nigh, but heard only the faint booming of the surf. So I arose and (albeit I found my legs mighty unwilling) came out upon the plateau, but look how and where I might, saw only a desolation of sea and beach, whereupon, being greatly disquieted, I set out minded to seek her. By the time I reached Deliverance the sun was well up, its heat causing my wound to throb and itch intolerably, and I very fretful and peevish. But as I tramped on and no trace of her I needs must remember how I had sought her hereabouts when I had thought her dead, whereupon a great and unreasoning panic seized me, and I began to run. And then, all at once, I spied her. She was sitting upon a rock, her head bowed wearily upon her hands, and seeing how her shoulders heaved I knew she was bitterly a-weeping. Therefore I stopped, and glancing from her desolate figure round about upon her desolate surroundings, knew this grim solitude for the reason of her tears. At this thought a wave of hot anger swept over me and a rage that, like my panic, reasoned not as, clenching my fists, I strode on. Suddenly she looked up and seeing me, rose at once, and lifting the great turtle-shell limped wearily towards me with this borne before her.
"Ha," says I, viewing her tear-wet cheeks as she came, "must ye weep, madam, must ye weep?"
"May I not weep, Martin?" says she, head pitifully a-droop. "Come, let us go back, you look very pale, 'twas wrong of you to come so far! Here is our breakfast, 'tis the best I can find." And she showed me a few poor shellfish.
"Give me the turtle-shell!" says I.
"Indeed I can bear it very easily, Martin. And you so white and haggard—your wound is troubling you. Come, let me bathe it—"
"Give me the turtle-shell!"
"No, Martin, be wise and let us—"
"Will you gainsay me—d'ye defy me?"
"O Martin, no, but you are so weak—"
"Weak! Am I so?" And stooping, I caught her up in my arms, upsetting the turtle-shell and spilling the result of her labours. So with her crushed to me I turned and set off along the beach, and she, lying thus helpless, must needs fall to weeping again and I, in my selfish and blind folly, to plaguing the sweet soul therewith, as:
"England is far away, my Lady Joan! Here be no courtly swains, no perfumed, mincing lovers, to sigh and bow and languish for you. Here is Solitude, lady. Desolation hath you fast and is not like to let you go—here mayhap shall you live—and die! An ill place this and, like nature, strong and cruel. An ill place and an ill rogue for company. You named me rogue once and rogue forsooth you find me. England is far away—but God—is farther—"
Thus I babbled, scowling down on her, as I bore her on until my breath came in great gasps, until the sweat poured from me, until I sank to my knees and striving to rise found I might not, and glaring wildly up saw we were come 'neath Bartlemy's cursed pimento tree. Then she, loosing herself from my fainting arms, bent down to push the matted hair from my eyes, to support my failing strength in tender arms, and to lower my heavy head to her knee.
"Foolish child!" she murmured, "Poor, foolish child! England is very far I know, but this I know also, Martin, God is all about us, and here in our loneliness within these great solitudes doth walk beside us."
"Yet you weep!" says I.
"Aye, I did, Martin."
"Because—of the—loneliness?"
"No, Martin."
"Your—lost friends?"
"No, Martin."
"Then—wherefore?"
"O trouble not for thing so small, a woman's tears come easily, they say."
"Not yours, Joan. Yet you wept—"
"Your wound bleeds afresh, lie you there and stir not till I bring water to bathe it." And away she hastes and I, burning in a fever of doubt and questioning, must needs lie there and watch her bring the turtle-shell to fill it at the little rill that bubbled in that rocky cleft as I have described before. While this was a-doing I stared up at the pimento tree, and bethinking me of Black Bartlemy and the poor Spanish lady and of my hateful dream, I felt sudden great shame, for here had I crushed my lady in arms as cruel well-nigh as his. This put me to such remorse that I might not lie still and strove to rise up, yet got no further than my knees; and 'twas thus she found me. And now when I would have sued her forgiveness for my roughness she soothed me with gentle words (though what she spake I knew not) and gave me to drink, and so fell to cherishing my hurt until, my strength coming back somewhat, I got to my feet and suffered her to bring me where she would, speaking no word, since in my fevered brain I was asking myself this question, viz.,
"Why must she weep?"
Now whether the Indian's knife was poisoned or no I cannot say, but for two days I lay direly sick and scarce able to crawl, conscious only of the soothing tones of her voice and touch of her hands. But upon the third day, opening my eyes I found myself greatly better though marvellous weak. And as I stirred she was beside me on her knees.
"Drink this, Martin!" says she. And I obeying, found it was excellent broth. And when I had drunk all I closed my eyes mighty content, and so lay a while.
"My Lady Joan," says I at last, "wherefore did you weep?"
"O Martin!" she sighed, "'Twas because that morning I had sought so long and found so little to give you and you so sick!" Here was silence a while.
"But whence cometh the broth?" quoth I at last.
"I caught a young goat, Martin; in a noose of hide set among the rocks; and then—then I had to kill it—O Martin!"
"You—caught and—killed a goat!"
"Yes, Martin. You had to be fed—but O, the poor thing—!"
"Surely," said I at last, "O surely never had man so brave a comrade as I! How may I ever show you all my gratitude?"
"By going to sleep, Martin. Your wound is well-nigh healed, sleep is all you need." And sleep I did; though at that time and for many nights to come my slumber was haunted by a fear that the Indian was back again, and others with him, all stealing upon us to our torment and destruction. But in this night I awoke parched with thirst and the night very hot and with the moon making pale glory all about me. So I got to my feet, albeit with much ado, being yet very feeble when her voice reached me:
"What is it, Martin? Are you thirsty?"
"Beyond enduring!" says I.
"Bide you still!" she commanded, and next moment she flits soft-footed into the moonlight with one of our larger shells to bring me water from the rill near by; but seeing me on my feet, looks on me glad-eyed, then shakes reproving head.
"Lie you down!" says she mighty serious, "Lie you down!"
"Nay, I'll go myself—" But she was past me and out of the cave or ever I might stay her; but scarce had I seated myself upon my bed than she was back again, the shell brimming in her hands; so I drank eagerly enough but with my gaze on the sheen of white, rounded arm and dimpled shoulder. Having emptied the shell I stooped to set it by, and when I looked again she had vanished into her own small cave.
"I am glad you are so greatly better, Martin," says she from the dark.
"Indeed, I am well again!" quoth I. "To-morrow I make my bow and arrows. Had I done this before, the Indian should never have got away."
"Think you he will return and with others, Martin?"
"No," says I (albeit my mind misgave me). "Yet 'tis best to be prepared, so I will have a good stout pike also in place of my broken sword."
"And strengthen our door, Martin?"
"Aye, I will so, 'tis a mighty stout door, thank God."
"Thank God!" says she mighty reverent. "And now go to sleep, Martin." So here was silence wherein I could hear the murmur of the breakers afar and the soft bubbling of the rill hard by, and yet sleep I could not.
"And you caught and killed a goat!" says I.
"Nay, Martin, 'tis a horror I would forget."
"And you did it that I might eat?"
"Yes, Martin. And now hush thee."
"Though indeed," says I in a little, "thus much you would have done for any man, to be sure!"
"To be sure, Martin—unless he were man like Black Bartlemy. Good-night and close your eyes. Are they shut?"
"Yes," says I. "Good-night to thee, comrade."
Next morning, having bathed me in the pool, I descended thence to find breakfast a-cooking, two noble steaks propped before the fire on skewers stuck upright in the ground, a device methought very ingenious, and told her so; the which did seem to please her mightily.
"Are you hungry, Martin?"
"'Tis a poor word for it!" says I, sniffing at the roasting steaks.
"Alas! Our poor turtle-shell is all perished with the fire. Martin, if you could but contrive me a pan with handles! I have found plenty of clay along the river bank yonder." Here she gives me my steak on a piece of wood for platter, and I being so sharp-set must needs burn my mouth in my eagerness, whereon she gravely reproves me as I had been a ravenous boy, yet laughs thereafter to see me eat with such huge appetite now a bite of plantain, and now a slice of steak cut with my knife.
"As to your pan with handles," says I, my hunger appeased somewhat, "I will set about it as soon as I have made my bow and arrows—"
"There is no need of them," quoth she, and rising, away she goes and presently comes back with a goodly bow and quiver full of arrows.
"Lord love you!" says I, leaping up in my eagerness. "Here's mighty good weapon!" As indeed it was, being longer than most Indian bows and of good power. Moreover it was tufted with feathers rare to fancy and garnished here and there with fillets of gold-work, very artificially wrought as were also the arrows. Nine of these there were in a quiver of tanned leather, adorned with featherwork and gold beads, so that I did not doubt but that their late owner had been of some account among his fellows.
"I found them two days ago, Martin, but kept them until you should be well again. And this I found too!" And she showed me a gold collar of twisted wire, delicately wrought. All of the which put me in high good humour and I was minded to set off there and then to try a shot at something, but she prevailed upon me to finish my meal first; the which I did, though hastily.
"There was a knife also," says I suddenly.
"Yes, Martin, but I threw it into the lagoon."
"O folly!" says I.
"Nay, we have two knives already, and this as I do think was poisoned."
"No matter, 'twas a goodly knife—why must you throw it away?"
"Because I was so minded!" says she, mighty serene and regarding me with her calm, level gaze. "Never scowl, Martin, though indeed 'twas goodly knife with handle all gold-work." At this I scowled the more and she must needs laugh, calling me Black Bartlemy, whereon I turned my back on her and she fell a-singing to herself.
"Think you these arrows are poisoned also?" says she as I rose. At this, I emptied them from the quiver, and though their iron barbs looked innocent enough, I held each in the fire until I judged I had rendered them harmless if poisoned they were indeed.
And now, though sore tempted to try my skill with this good bow, I followed her down to the river-bank to try my hand at pottery, though taking good care to carry my bow with me.
Being come to the river I laid aside bow and quiver, and cutting divers lumps of clay (the which seemed very proper to my purpose) I fell to kneading these lumps until I had wrought them to a plastic consistency, and so (keeping my hands continually moistened) I began to mould and shape a pot to her directions. And now, since I was about it, I determined to have as many as need be and of different sizes. My first was a great ill-looking thing, and my second little better, but as I progressed I grew more skilful so that after some while I had six pots of varying size and shape, and each with handles; and, though ill things to look at, my lady found them all she desired.
"Surely they are very clumsy?" says I, viewing them doubtfully.
"But very strong, Martin!"
"And very ponderous!"
"But they have handles, Martin!"
"And very ill-shaped!"
"'Tis no matter so long as they will hold water, Martin."
Hereupon, heartened by her encouragement, I tried my hand at a set of dishes, platters and the like, for as I grew more expert at the art, my interest increased. So I laboured all the morning, working 'neath a tree upon the river-bank, and my pots set out to dry in the full glare of the sun all of a row, and I, in my heart, not a little proud of them. But turning to look at them after some while I saw divers of them beginning to crack and gape here and there with the sun's heat, whereon my vain pride gave place to sudden petulant anger, and leaping up I demolished them, one and all, with a couple of savage kicks.
"O Martin!" cries my lady, desponding, "Is all your labour wasted? Are you done?"
"No!" says I, clenching my teeth, "I begin now!" And down I sat to my clay-kneading again. But this time I worked it more thoroughly, and so began to mould my pots and pipkins over again, and she aiding me as well as she might. This time the thing came easier, at the which my companion did admire and very full of encouragement as the vessels took shape under my hands.
"Come, Martin," says she at last, "'tis dinner-time!"
"No matter!" quoth I.
"Will you not eat?"
"No!" says I, mighty determined. "Here sit I nor will I go eat till I can contrive you a pot worthy the name." And I bent to my work again; but missing her from beside me, turned to see her seated upon the grassy bank and with two roasted steaks set out upon two great green leaves, a delectable sight.
"Pray lend me your knife, Martin."
"What, have you brought dinner hither?" says I.
"To be sure, Martin."
"Why then—!" says I, and laving the clay from my hands came beside her and, using our knife alternately, a very pleasant meal we made of it.
All that afternoon I wrought at our pots until I had made a dozen or so of all sizes, and each and every furnished with one or more handles; and though I scowled at a crack here and there, they looked none the less serviceable on the whole, and hardening apace.
"And now, comrade," quoth I, rising, "now we will fire them." So having collected wood sufficient, I reached for my biggest pot (the which being made first was the hardest-set), and taking it up with infinite care off tumbled the handles. At this I was minded to dash the thing to pieces, but her touch restrained me and I set it down, staring at it mighty discomfited and downcast; whereat she laughs right merrily.
"O Martin," says she, "never gloom so, 'tis an excellent pot even without handles, indeed I do prefer it so!"
"No," says I, "handles you wanted and handles you shall have!" So taking a stick that lay handy, I sharpened it to a point and therewith bored me two holes beneath the lip of the pot and other two opposite. "This pot shall have iron handle," says I, "unless it perish in the fire." Then setting the pots as close as might be, I covered them with brushwood and thereupon (and with infinite caution) builded a fire and presently had it a-going. Now I would have stayed to tend the fire but my companion showed me the sun already low, vowed I had done enough, that I was tired, etc. So, having set upon the fire wood enough to burn good time, I turned away and found myself weary even as she said.
"Goat's-flesh," says I as we sat side by side after supper, "goat's-flesh is an excellent, wholesome diet and, as you cook it, delicious."
"'Tis kind of you to say so, Martin, but—"
"We have had it," says I, "we have had it boiled and baked—"
"And roast and stewed, and broiled across your iron bolts, Martin, and yet 'tis always goat's-flesh and I do yearn for a change, and so do you."
"Lord!" says I, "You do read my very thoughts sometimes."
"Is that so wonderful, Martin?"
"Why, a man's thoughts are but thoughts," says I, watching where she braided a long tress of her hair.
"Some men's thoughts are so easily read!" says she.
"Are mine?"
"Sometimes, Martin!" Now at this I blenched and well I might, and she smiled down at the long tress of hair she was braiding and then glances at me mighty demure; quoth she: "But only sometimes, Martin. Now, for instance, you are wondering why of late I have taken to wearing my hair twisted round my head and pinned with these two small pieces of wood in fashion so unsightly!"
"Aye, truly," says I wondering, "indeed and so I was! Though I do not think it unsightly!"
"I wear it so, Martin, first because my hairpins are yet to make, and second because I would not have you find my hairs in your baked goat, boiled goat, roast, fried or stewed goat. And speaking of goat brings us back where we began, and we began yearning for a change of food."
"As to that," says I, taking her half-finished hairpin from my pocket and drawing my knife, "the lagoon is full of fish had I but a hook—"
"Or a net, Martin."
"How should we contrive our net?"
"In the woods all about us do grow vines very strong and pliable—would these serve, think you?"
"Ha—an excellent thought!" says I. "To-morrow we will attempt it. As to fish-hooks, I might contrive them out of my nails hammered small, though I fear they'd be but clumsy. Had I but a good stout pin—"
"I have two, Martin, here in my shoe-buckles."
"Show me!" Stooping, she slipped off one of her shoes and gave it to me; and turning it over in my hand I saw the poor little thing all cut and torn and in woeful estate.
"I must contrive you other shoes and soon!" says I.
"Can you make shoes, Martin?"
"I'll tell you this to-morrow."
"O Martin, 'twould be wonderful if you could, and a great comfort to me."
"Why then, you shall have them, though unlovely things they'll be, I fear."
"No matter so long as they keep out sharp stones and briars, Martin."
"Your foot is wonderfully small!" says I, studying her shoe.
"Is it, Martin? Why 'tis a very ordinary foot, I think. And the pins are behind the buckles." Sure enough I found these silver buckles furnished each with a good stout pin well-suited to my design; so breaking them from the buckles, I had soon bent them into hooks and (with the back of my knife and a stone) I shaped each with a small ring a-top whereby I might secure them to my line; and though they had no barbs I thought they might catch any fish were I quick enough.
"How shall you do for a line, Martin?"
"I shall take the gut of one of our goats and worsted unravelled from my stocking."
"Will worsted be strong enough?"
"I shall make it fourfold."
"Nay, I will plait it into a line for you!"
"Good!" quoth I. And whipping off one of my stockings I unravelled therefrom sufficient of the worsted.
"But what shall you do for stockings?" says she, while this was a-doing.
"I will make me leggings of goat's-skin." So she took the worsted and now, sitting in a patch of radiant moonlight, fell to work, she weaving our fish-line with fingers very quick and dexterous, and I carving away at the pin for her hair.
"How old are you, Martin?" says she suddenly.
"Twenty-seven."
"And I shall be twenty-six to-morrow."
"I judged you older."
"Do I look it, Martin?"
"Yes—no, no!"
"Meaning what, Martin!"
"You do seem older, being no silly maid but of a constant mind, and one to endure hardship. Also you are very brave in peril, very courageous and high-hearted. Moreover you are wise."
"Do you think me all this?" says she softly. "And wherefore?"
"I have never heard you complain yet—save of me, and I have never seen you afraid. Moreover you caught a goat and killed it!"
"You are like to make me vain of my so many virtues, Martin!" laughs she; yet her laugh was very soft and her eyes kind when she looked at me.
"This hairpin shall be my birthday gift to you," says I.
"And surely none like to it in the whole world, Martin!"
After this we worked a great while, speaking no word; but presently she shows me my fish-line very neatly plaited and a good five feet long, the which did please me mightily, and so I told her.
"Heigho!" says she, leaning back against the rock, "Our days grow ever more busy!"
"And will do!" quoth I. "Here is strange, rude life for you, days of hardship and labour unceasing. Your hands shall grow all hard and rough and yourself sick with longing to be hence—"
"Alas, poor me!" she sighed.
"Why, 'twill be no wonder if you grieve for England and ease," says I, "'twill be but natural."
"O very, Martin!"
"For here are you," I went on, beginning to scowl up at the waning moon, "here are you bred up to soft and silken comfort, very dainty and delicate, and belike with lovers a-plenty, courtly gallants full up of fine phrases and eager for your service—."
"Well, Martin?"
"Instead of the which you have this island!"
"An earthly paradise!" says she.
"And myself!"
"A foolish being and gloomy!" says she. "One that loveth to be woeful and having nought to grieve him for the moment must needs seek somewhat! So will I to bed ere he find it!"
"Look now," quoth I, as she rose, "in losing the world you do lose everything—."
"And you also, Martin."
"Nay," says I, "in losing the world of yesterday I may find more than ever I possessed!"
"Meaning you are content, Martin?"
"Is anyone ever content in this world?"
"Well—I—might be!" says she slowly. "But you—I do fear you will never know true content, it is not in you, I think."
And off she goes to bed leaving me very full of thought. Howbeit the moon being very bright (though on the wane) I stayed there until I had finished her hairpin, of the which I give here a cut, viz.:—
(Sketch of a hairpin.)