"Are you come at last, Martin?" says she in her sweet voice. "Supper is ready this hour and more!"
"Supper!" says I.
"The goat's-flesh. I made a stew, but fear 'tis spoiled."
"Indeed," says I, "it smells mighty appetising!"
"I had no salt nor spices, Martin, but in a little garden yonder that is all run wild, I found some sage and sweet herbs."
"Good!" says I. So she brought me to the fire and there in our great turtle-shell was as savoury a stew as ever greeted eyes of hungry man.
By her directions, and will all due care, I lifted this from the fire, and propping it with stones we sat down side by side. And now she shows me two of my smaller shells, and dipping hers into the stew I did the like, and though we had no salt (the which set my wits at work) and though we lacked for bread, a very excellent meal we made of it, and the moon shedding its glory all about us.
The meal done, and while she cleansed the things at a rill that murmured hard by, I made up the fire (for after the heat of the day, night struck chill) and by the time she came back I had the flame crackling merrily. And now as she sat over against me on the stone, I saw she had been weeping. And she, knowing I saw this, nodded her head, scorning all subterfuge.
"I feared you had met with some mischance and lay hurt, Martin--or worse--"
"You mean dead?"
"Aye, dead."
"Would it have mattered so much?"
"Only that I should have died likewise!"
"Because of the loneliness?" says I.
"Indeed," she sighed, staring into the fire, "because of the loneliness."
"I serve some purpose, then, in the scheme of things?"
"Yes, Martin, you teach a woman how, even in this desolation, being weak and defenceless she may trust to a man's honour and find courage and great comfort in his strength. 'Twas foolish of me to be horror-struck at your stained garments when you had been slaying that I might eat."
"'Tis all forgot!" says I, hastily.
"And as for the murders on the ship--O Martin, as if you might ever make me believe you had committed murder--or ever could. You that under all your bitterness are still the same gentle boy I knew so long ago."
"And why should you be so sure of all this and I but what I am?" says I, staring also into the fire.
"Mayhap because I am a woman with all a woman's instinct to know the evil from the good."