I had been a strong man, and it
had come to that, and I was content to let it be. The smell of the
woods that day, the chill brown earth beneath me, the blowing
wind, the long stretch of the river gleaming between the pines, . . .
and fair in sight the white sails of the Patience and the
Deliverance.
I had been too nigh gone then to greatly care that I was saved; now
I cared, and thanked God for my life. Come what might in the
future, the past was mine. Though I should never see my wife
again, I had that hour in the state cabin of the George. I loved, and
was loved again.
There was a noise outside the door, and Rolfe's voice speaking to
the gaoler. Impatient for his entrance I started toward the door, but
when it opened he made no move to cross the threshold. "I am not
coming in," he said, with a face that he strove to keep grave. "I
only came to bring some one else." With that he stepped back, and
a second figure, coming forward out of the dimness behind him,
crossed the threshold. It was a woman, cloaked and hooded. The
door was drawn to behind her, and we were alone together.
Beside the cloak and hood she wore a riding mask. "Do you know
who it is?" she asked, when she had stood, so shrouded, for a long
minute, during which I had found no words with which to
welcome her.
"Yea," I answered: "the princess in the fairy tale.
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