Andrew put her hand aside, gently. He started to tear a strip from his shirt to bandage the wound. But the shirt was dirty and hard to tear. "Have you a handkerchief--anything--Caterina?" he asked anxiously. He felt in the darkness--she was wearing a scarf at her waist. He held her up and undid it. "My poor scarf," she said, smiling. Her eyelids fluttered and closed again--her face looked more content. He bandaged the wound as best he could with the scarf. "There, is that better?" "Much," she said, and sighed, lazily. "Thank you, _señor_ Beard." "Don't call me _señor_," said Andrew. "I won't call you anything," she said, with a faint laugh. "I shall go to sleep. I am tired. Wake me when it is time to bail again." He helped her to stretch out as comfortably as possible in the bottom of the boat, pillowing her head on the coat from which Sebastian had taken the button. Then he crawled back aft and crouched there, his head by Sebastian's knees. They were out in the little bay, now, the moonlight was ghostly on its white shelves of sand, the line of foam on the beach was a pale thread spun by a ghost on a shuttle of pearl. Presently they would run past the headland and the broad sea would take them. Sebastian tested the wind. "Good," he muttered. "Can you handle her, amigo, after we get out of this bay?" "Uh," said Andrew, nearly asleep. Sebastian laughed. "I'll wake you when you have to take her," he said. Andrew threw back his head and looked up at the sky, breathing deep. The moon was a sailor's lamp now, a lamp of silver salt, sea-crusted, at the masthead of heaven. The stars were lights in a rigging. As he lay back he felt not only the movement of the boat, but a larger, vaguer roll, the roll of earth itself, a dark, huge ark plunging forward slowly through a black-and-silver waste. The slow way of that tremendous passage shook in his heart. He felt suddenly very happy and no longer dismayed by what might be in store for them. They had escaped, they were free. Caterina lay sleeping there in the bow: he could make out the huddle of her shoulder. In the morning he would see her as he had never seen her, familiar, friendly, with no mark of fear or oppression between her brows. They would live together always, somehow, Sebastian, Caterina and he--and gradually the stigmata of the stranger would depart from him and he would be able to read the runes enciphered in the ivory box of her heart.