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“Till thou give in to me. We’m goin’ straight t’wards Plymouth now, an’ if th’ wind holds–as ’twill–we’ll be off the Rame in two hours. If you haven’t said me yes by that maybe we’ll go on; or perhaps we’ll run across to the coast o’ France–“

“Girl, do you know that if I’m not back by day-break, I’m ruined!”

“And oh, man, man! Can’t ‘ee see that I’m ruined, too, if I turn back without your word? How shall I show my face in Troy streets again, tell me?”

At this sudden transference of responsibility the minister was staggered.

“You should have thought of that before,” he said, employing the one obvious answer.

“O’ course I thought of it. But for love o’ you I made up my mind to risk it. An’ now there’s no goin’ back.” She paused a moment and then added, as a thought struck her, “Why, lad, doesn’ that prove I love ‘ee uncommon?”

“I prefer not to consider the question. Once more–will you go back?”

“I can’t.”

He bit his lips and moved forward to the cuddy, on the roof of which he seated himself sulkily. The girl tossed him an end of rope.

“Dear, better coil that up an’ sit ‘pon it. The frost’ll strike a chill into thee.”

With this she resumed her old attitude by the tiller. Her eyes were fixed ahead, her gaze passing just over the minister’s hat. When he glanced up he saw the rime twinkling on her shoulders and the star-shine in her dark eyes. Around them the heavens blazed with constellations. Never had the minister seen them so multitudinous or so resplendent. Never before had the firmament seemed so alive to him. He could almost hear it breathe. And beneath the stars the little boat raced eastward, with the reef-points pattering on its tan sails.

Neither spoke. For the most part the minister avoided the girl’s eyes, and sat nursing his wrath. The whole affair was ludicrous; but it meant the sudden ruin of his good name, at the very start of his career. This was the word he kept grinding between his teeth–“ruin,” “ruin.” Whenever it pleased this mad creature to set him ashore, he must write to Deacon Snowden for his boxes and resign all connection with Troy. But would he ever get rid of the scandal? Could he ever be sure that, to whatever distance he might flee, it would not follow him? Had he not better abandon his calling, once and for all? It was hard.

A star shot down from the Milky Way and disappeared in darkness behind the girl’s shoulders. His eyes, following it, encountered hers. She left the tiller and came slowly forward.

“In three minutes we’ll open Plymouth Sound,” she said quietly, and then with a sharp gesture flung both arms out towards him. “Oh, lad, think better o’t an’ turn back wi’ me! Say you’ll marry me, for I’m perishin’ o’ love!”

The moonshine fell on her throat and extended arms. Her lips were parted, her head was thrown back a little, and for the first time the young minister saw that she was a beautiful woman.

“Ay, look, look at me!” she pleaded. “That’s what I’ve wanted ‘ee to do all along. Take my hands: they’m shapely to look at and strong to work for ‘ee.”

Hardly knowing what he did, the young man took them; then in a moment he let them go–but too late; they were about his neck.

With that he sealed his fate for good or ill. He bent forward a little and their lips met.

So steady was the wind that the boat still held on her course; but no sooner had the girl received the kiss than she dropped her arms, walked off, and shifted the helm.

“Unfasten the sheet there,” she commanded, “and duck your head clear.”

As soon as their faces were set for home, the minister walked back to the cuddy roof and sat down to reflect. Not a word was spoken till they reached the harbour’s mouth again, and then he pulled out his watch. It was half-past four in the morning.

Outside the Battery Point the girl hauled down the sails and got out the sweeps; and together they pulled up under the still sleeping town to the minister’s quay-door. He was clumsy at this work, but she instructed him in whispers, and they managed to reach the ladder as the clocks were striking five. The tide was far down by this time, and she held the boat close to the ladder while he prepared to climb. With his foot on the first round, he turned. She was white as a ghost, and trembling from top to toe.

“Nance–did you say your name was Nance?”

She nodded.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’ll–I’ll let you off, if you want to be let off.”

“I’m not sure that I do,” he said, and stealing softly up the ladder, stood at the top and watched her boat as she steered it back to Ruan.

Three months after, they were married, to the indignant amazement of the minister’s congregation. It almost cost him his pulpit, but he held on and triumphed. There is no reason to believe that he ever repented of his choice, or rather of Nance’s. To be sure, she had kidnapped him by a lie; but perhaps she wiped it out by fifty years of honest affection. On that point, however, I, who tell the tale, will not dogmatise.