BLACK PAWL had knocked at Ruth’s door while she was preparing to put up her hair. It was about her shoulders now. He thought, abruptly, that with her hair thus, she looked very young, like a child—a child to be protected. It took the purpose out of him, to see her thus. He found himself thinking that his own daughter might have been like this, if she had lived; like this, with flowing hair, and sweetly curving lips, and the brave, calm eyes of a child.

She paid no heed to his words; she came out into the main cabin, braiding her hair and throwing it over her shoulder, out of the way. “Oh,” she said, “I thought you were asleep. You must come back and go to sleep. You will be sick, truly.”

“I was asleep,” he replied. “I woke up. I can’t sleep.”

“I shouldn’t have left you,” she reproved herself. “But I didn’t think you would wake up. Come, I’ll put you to sleep again, and stay with you.”

“I don’t want to go to sleep.”

She smiled at him. “You don’t know what you want. You’re deadly tired, and sick. Come.”

Her hair was in a thick braid now, down her back. She looked more like a little child than ever; and he had a desire, almost overpowering, to yield, to go back, and sleep at her bidding. He fought it off, repeating stubbornly: “No, I don’t want to sleep.”

There were chairs by the cabin table, and she sat down in one of them and looked up at him and laughed. “What do you want, then? Do you know?”

He sat down, the table between them, and looked at her with his hot and aching eyes. He was dizzy and trembling with weakness. “How old are you?” he asked.

“Past twenty,” she told him. His child, his daughter, would have been that age. “Why?”

“With your hair like that, you look like a little girl,” he said thickly.

She nodded. “That’s all I am. I don’t feel grown up, at all—except with Dan. Then I feel old enough to be his mother.”

“Dan,” he repeated under his breath, and she said softly:

“Yes, Dan Darrin.”

His head swayed a little, back and forth, lowering at her. “Him you think you—love?”

“Him I do love.”

“How do you know so surely?”

“Oh—I know.”

“But if you’re a child, how can you know?”

“I know,” she repeated. “I—just know.”

His eyes lowered to the table, and he thought, heavily. When he looked at her again, he asked: “Ever know many men?”

“Not many white men,” she said, “except—the missionary.”

Black Pawl laughed unpleasantly. “He’s not a man; he’s a woman.”

“He’s the finest and bravest of men.”

“Oh, aye,” said the Captain. “He’s a man, after his kind.”

“And I love him,” she declared.

“Him too?” Black Pawl mocked.

There was an implication in his tone that colored her cheeks; but she said nothing. Black Pawl leaned toward her. “Dan Darrin is all right,” he said deprecatingly. “But—he’s a boy. He’s not a man grown, yet. You’d do best to pick a man.”

“Dan’s a man,” she cried.

He shook his head stubbornly. “A good boy; but not a man yet. He needs ripening.”

She said thoughtfully: “Don’t you think it’s natural for people to—like people of their own age?”

“Blind children, maybe. But not those who are wise. You’re not overwise to throw yourself to Dan so swiftly.”

She smiled at him gayly. “I’m not throwing myself at him,” she said. “You’re not—considerate, to accuse me of that.”

“I said ‘to’ him, not ‘at’ him,” he reminded her.

“Throwing myself away?” she laughed.

“Aye.”

“I’ll—risk that with Dan.” She leaned toward him. “Please!” she said. “You know Dan is fine and good and strong. Don’t try to make me unhappy—because you can’t.”

His eyes burned her; he struck his fist upon the table. “I’m as much a man as Dan.”

She hesitated, watching him; and then she said, soberly: “Yes, you are.”

Her eyes were troubled.

“I tell you,” he exclaimed in a swift, harsh voice, “I tell you I’m as much a man as he! And I—” He was shaken by an abrupt confusion. “By the eternal, there’s something in you that draws me, Ruth. There’s something in you that cries out to me.”

She did not speak; and he asked, in a tone that was half entreaty: “Have you not felt this at all?”

She told him frankly: “Yes; I like and admire you immensely, Cap’n Pawl.”

He struck the table again. “I said it. Then why must you talk of this love that you say you have for Dan Darrin?”

“I love Dan; I but like you,” she told him.

He flung up his hand. “Words, words. I tell you, there’s something between us, you and me, more than liking. I’m not a man to be liked. Harsh, and cold, and rough with my men, God-denying, without scruple, called ‘Black Pawl’ for the sake of the deeds I have done. You’d not be ‘liking’ such a man. It’s more than ‘liking,’ Ruth. I tell you, there’s more.”

She shook her head slowly. “You are—all that which you say,” she agreed. “And yet—there’s good in the heart of you. I like that good in you.”

“I’m black to my soul,” he boasted. She laughed softly.

“No man’s that,” she told him. “No man’s that; and you least of all.”

He sat back in his chair, hands palm down on the table before him, and stared at his bony fingers. And at last he flung up his head and leveled his eyes on her. “Have it so,” he agreed. “Have it so, on your side. But on mine, this is no matter of liking. There’s a deeper bond. I—” He leaned toward her, his face working. “Ruth, I don’t know what it is,” he cried appealingly. “But it’s there; it’s there. I’m drawn to you, pulled to you. It’s there, I say.”

She met his eyes, and answered: “I’m—drawn to you, too, Cap’n Pawl. There is—affection in me for you. I would do a great deal to help you.”

“Ah, you love me,” he cried, leaning toward her. But she shook her head.

“No, I love Dan Darrin—in that way. It may be that I love you in another—as a brother, or a father—”

Black Pawl laughed angrily. “You’ll be a sister to me! Fiddle and all! I want no sisters. And—even though to you I may seem old enough for fathering, I’m not. I tell you I’m as much a boy as Dan Darrin, where you’re concerned. Father! Brother! Fiddling talk!”

“Friends, then,” she suggested straightforwardly. “We’ll always be friends.”

“I’m no hand for friends,” said Black Pawl. “It’s a milk-and-water word, where a man and a woman are in the matter.”

She said, a little impatiently: “You’re not very reasonable. And—you’d be the better for friends, Black Pawl.”

He leaned back in his chair, and his eyes fell; he thought, abruptly, of his son; and a great hopelessness settled down upon the man. He did not know just what he had hoped for; he had not meant to speak thus to this girl. After all, what could he expect? Hers was the privilege to laugh at him. He was an old man, and he must accept youth’s judgment upon him.

Through the current of his thoughts, he heard Marvin, the cook, come down into the cabin to get food from the captain’s stores, below. He heard Ruth speak to the man, and heard them talk together. Ruth liked old Marvin; they were, in a fashion, cronies. She got up and stood and talked with him, while Black Pawl’s sick thoughts ran on.

He forgot the other two were there, and thought of himself, and of Red Pawl. He was sick with the sickness of despair. He felt himself weak and shaken, and cursed himself for being weak. He thought that he had thrown himself at this child’s feet, and she had laughed at him. Some day she would tell Dan Darrin, and they would laugh together at the weakness of Black Pawl. The thought was bitter, for strength was his pride and boast, and there was no living man who had seen that strength broken. All his life he had been known for a strong man and a ruthless one; and this frail girl had laughed at him. The tale would go abroad.

He did not care for that. Let men laugh; they would not laugh to his face. But the girl would laugh—she and Dan Darrin. And—would they not have the right to mock him? Was he not a jest and a joke upon the face of the waters? He was master of the Deborah, and master of all aboard her! Did she know that, this child? She must know; yet she was not afraid. Rather, she laughed.

He heard Marvin come up from the storeroom, and speak to the girl again. Here at least was fair target for his wrath. He stormed to his feet and toward the man. “On deck, you swipe!” he roared. “Get out o’ my sight.”

Marvin scuttled up the companion; and Black Pawl turned again to where the girl sat, and looked down at her with black and knitted brows. His hair was tumbled, his cheeks were lined, his eyes were sunken. He trembled weakly where he stood, and she was infinitely sorry for him; and stood up to face him, and said softly:

“Come, you’re tired. Do let me put you to sleep.”

“I tell you, I’m not minded to sleep,” he answered thickly.

“No matter,” she smiled. “You will be. It’s what you need.” She touched his arm. He flung her hand away.

“Mark this,” he said. “You’ve not understood what I’ve been telling you. I say Dan Darrin’s not to have you while I live. Is that clear to you?”

Faintly troubled, she said: “You’re sick, and tired. You don’t know what you say. Please lie down.”

“I do know what I say. I do mean what I say. This is my ship, the Deborah. Nothing passes here save with my will. I say, this matter of Dan is to be forgotten—till I say the word.”

She answered, eyes braving his: “You’re a strong man, Cap’n Pawl. And—master of the ship. But there are some things beyond your command. I am one of them; my heart the other. We’re Dan’s.”

“You’re overly brave,” he sneered.

“I am not afraid,” she answered.

“You told me once you could never be afraid of me.”

“I could never be afraid of you.”

“Why not?”

“I do not know.”

He lifted a hand in a tense, impatient gesture. “Listen,” he commanded. “Your Dan is a mile away; he’ll not be back this hour. None will come into this cabin save on my word. I tell you, I claim you from Dan Darrin, and I stick to that claim.”

“I tell you,” she said steadily, “that your strength and your claims are nothing to me. I’m Dan’s.”

His head lowered as he looked deep into her eyes for a flicker of panic. “You are not afraid, when I say this much to you?”

“No.”

The strength of her, the cold courage, the steady gaze, maddened him. For a long instant their eyes met and held; then he turned away from her, walked aimlessly across the cabin, turned by the companion to look back at her. His lips moved as though there were a bitter taste in his mouth, and the girl found herself longing to run to him, to comfort him and quiet him and bid him rest. She dropped her eyes, that he might not see this tenderness in them, and turned slowly back to her cabin.

It was no more than three paces from where she stood to her cabin door. But as she reached the door, she heard him moving; and she turned in the doorway and looked at him.

He was coming toward her slowly; his eyes were bitter and angry, and he stumbled as he came.

She waited in the open door. Within arm’s-length of her he stopped, swaying. He felt himself checked by a spiritual wall about her that barred him out. For a space he could not stir. He did not speak; she said no word. For seconds they stood thus, unmoving.

Then Black Pawl cursed. “Hell’s fire!” he muttered, and dropping his great hands upon her shoulders, he pushed her slowly backward, into her narrow cabin. Once inside, he thrust her from him, and she caught and steadied herself against the cabin wall. He swung the door shut, then setting his shoulders against it, looked at her.

She met his eyes without flinching.

“Well, are you still so brave!” he demanded hoarsely, his lips twisting in a mocking smile.

“I am not afraid,” she answered.

His brows knit. He asked dully: “What do you mean, child? How can you say that? How can you help fearing? Why are you not afraid?”

She dropped her eyes, as though she were thinking; and after a little she looked up at him again. “I’ll tell you, if I can, Cap’n Pawl,” she said.

“Tell on,” he bade her. “Tell on. There’s time.”

“I don’t know whether you will understand,” she began, half to herself. “But—I believe in God. Just as all men do! Just as all men must, in their hearts, believe. I believe there is a God; I believe He is a very real God, caring for us. I believe He is caring for me. So I can never be afraid.

“And—there is another thing,” she said. “I told you there is good in you, even though men do call you Black Pawl. I am not afraid of you, because of that good in you. I—understand you, perhaps, better than you understand yourself. You are tired out, with your fighting the storm. You are unhappy for Red Pawl’s sake. You are sick with—the liquor you have been drinking. It is almost true of you that you know not what you do.

“But you do know; and there is too much good in you to lie silent through the doing. It would never let you do that which you try to wish to do, Cap’n Pawl.” She smiled suddenly, looking confidently up at him. “As a matter of fact,” she said, “if you could have driven yourself on—But you can never do it, Cap’n Pawl. You could not. So, I am not afraid.”

He had listened to her, frowning with the effort at thought; and when she ceased speaking, he remained silent, as though considering. His head was splitting with a throbbing ache; his eyes were coals. He could not think. Of all that she had said, he only understood that she was not afraid. It was like a challenge flung in his teeth. He said thickly:

“Not afraid? By the eternal, we’ll try that!”

His right hand dropped on her shoulder, and he made to jerk her toward him, against his breast, but she came passively, unresisting. He caught her head in the crook of his arm and gazed down into her eyes. And then suddenly he felt a sickening shame as though he were beating a child. And she had not resisted! Why did she not resist, fight him, give him obstacles to overcome?

She remained passive; but it was hard for her to breathe. When her lungs were choking, she was forced to set her hands against his breast and push herself away from him.

He cried out at that. So! She was fighting at last. He let her go, for the exultant triumph of recapturing her. When she was free of him, he reached out and caught her shoulder again.

Under his harsh hand, the light fabric of her waist was torn. A wave of sickness at what he had done swept over him, and he dropped his hand.

And then he saw, hanging by a thin gold chain about her neck, a locket of gold. It was such a locket as he had given to his wife, long years ago.