A wild feeling of triumph possessed him. So of old might some sea-rover have felt, bearing off his prey from that very shore. His sweetheart was in his arms, he alone could save her from her pursuers; surely her icy pride would melt now. So sweet, so cold, so near him, and yet so far off! Slowly he splashed forward, the water deepening as he went. Audrey said no word, her little hand rested on his shoulder, she did not move. It seemed to him all too soon, breathless though he was, that they reached the boat, and old Job lifted the precious burden over the side. Harrison climbed, dripping, after, and shook himself like a water-dog, before venturing to approach his lady. Then he took her hand, and led her to the stern of the boat, where he had prepared a heap of cloaks and sails. "We must do our best to shelter you from the night dew," he said, as he folded the cloak round her, and made an awning of the sails over her head. So warm and cosy was the little nest, so lulling the slow rocking of the boat, and her lazy creak as she leant over, that Audrey suddenly discovered she was unable to keep her eyes open, and before she could utter the formal speech of thanks she had been conning, she was fast asleep. She awoke to find the darkness past, and gay sunlight dancing on the ripples, and gilding the brown sail and weather-beaten mast. All was blue around her, a clean pale blue, like a world fresh made, that had not yet bloomed into its full colour. Pale blue was the sky, pale blue the sea, only fringed to the south by a narrow line of gold that showed the sand-hills that hid her home. Close above her stood Harrison, keeping the swaying tiller steady with his knee, a handsome, soldierly figure, in spite of his rough clothes and great sea-boats. At the other end of the boat the old fisherman was busy with his lines, only laying them down now and again to give a stroke with one oar or the other, and keep the boat's head steady. As Audrey sat up, Harrison's grave face broke into a smile. Who could think of misunderstandings, regrets, even of repentance, on a spring morning, with a face as fair as the spring dawning on him? "Good morrow," he said; "you have slept sound." "Indeed," she answered, "I feel as though I had slept the clock round. What time is it, and what day is it?" "'Tis Saturday, and our ship will soon be in sight, for the sun is high." "I am indeed a sluggard!" cried Audrey, looking at the little watch that hung in a silver ball at her waist. "'Tis eight o'clock." "And Job hath no provisions, save bread and cheese and a flagon of small beer," said Harrison, regretfully. "I would I could have been a better caterer, but my flight was so sudden." He knelt with one arm over the tiller while he rummaged out the fisherman's store. He thanked the chance that let him serve her on his knees, and lay his offerings at her feet, when, poor fellow, he would so gladly have laid his heart, would she but give leave.