Great Britain -- History -- Mary I, 1553-1558 -- Fiction; Historical fiction
"Yes, we are at Dort, you know. And we are going by the Waal, a branch
of the Rhine, to Arnheim. But the boat is here, close to this one,
and, with help, I think you will be able to walk to it."
"I am sure I shall if you will give me your arm," I answered
gratefully.
"But you will not think again," she replied, "that we have deserted
you?"
"No," I said. "I will trust you always."
I wondered why a shadow crossed her face at that. But I had no time to
do more than wonder, for Master Bertram, coming down, brought our
sitting to an end. She bustled about to wrap me up, and somehow,
partly walking, partly carried, I was got on deck. There I sat down on
a bale to recover myself, and felt at once much the better for the
fresh, keen air, the clear sky and wintry sunshine which welcomed me
to a foreign land.
On the outer side of the vessel stretched a wide expanse of turbid
water, five or six times as wide as the Thames at London, and
foam-flecked here and there by the up-running tide. On the other side
was a wide and spacious quay, paved neatly with round stones, and
piled here and there with merchandise; but possessing, by virtue of
the lines of leafless elms which bordered it, a quaint air of
rusticity in the midst of bustle. The sober bearing of the sturdy
landsmen, going quietly about their business, accorded well with the
substantial comfort of the rows of tall, steep-roofed houses I saw
beyond the quay, and seemed only made more homely by the occasional
swagger and uncouth cry of some half-barbarous seaman, wandering
aimlessly about. Above the town rose the heavy square tower of a
church, a notable landmark where all around, land and water, lay so
low, where the horizon seemed so far, and the sky so wide and breezy.
"So you have made up your mind to come with us," said Master Bertram,
returning to my side--he had left me to make some arrangements. "You
understand that if you would prefer to go home I can secure your
tendance here by good, kindly people, and provide for your passage
back when you feel strong enough to cross. You understand that? And
that the choice is entirely your own? So which will you do?"
I changed color and felt I did. I shrunk, as being well and strong I
should not have shrunk, from losing sight of those three faces which I
had known for so short a time, yet which alone stood between myself
and loneliness. "I would rather come with you," I stammered. "But I
shall be a great burden to you now, I fear."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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