"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.