"I am Bartlemy that killed you!" says I. "I am Black Bartlemy! They know out yonder beyond the reef, hark and you shall hear how they hail me--"
"O kind God, teach me how I may win him back to knowledge!" So crying, this Spanish lady of a sudden unpinned her hair and shook its glossy ripples all about her: "Look, Martin!" cries she, "Don't you know me--O don't you know me now? I am Joan--come back to you--"
"No!" says I, "No--Damaris is dead and lost--I saw her die!"
"Then who am I, Martin?"
"The Spanish lady or--one of the ghosts do haunt me."
But now her hands were clasping mine, her soft hair all about me as she stooped. And feeling these hands so warm and vital, so quick and strong with life, I began to tremble and strove against her no longer; and so she stooped above me that I might feel her sweet breath on fevered cheek and brow: "'Tis your Damaris, Martin," says she, her tears falling fast, "'tis your comrade hath come back to comfort you."
Now seeing how I stared all trembling and amazed, she set her arms about me, and drawing me to her bosom, clasped me there. And my head pillowed thus I fell a-weeping, but these tears were tears of joy and thankfulness beyond all words.
"O Damaris," quoth I at last, "if this be death I care not since I have seen thee again!"
"Why, Martin," says she, weeping with me, "art indeed so glad--so glad to find again thy poor comrade!"
And thus, knowing myself forgiven, a great joy sang within me.