"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?"