She stared at him and thought the words, “My husband, my husband. Despair engulfed her at the horrid remembrance that the one particular Englishman she knew to be sympathique did not at all wish to marry her. ‘Dolt! Muttonheaded oaf! Why the deuce couldn’t he have sent you home?’ Valade cut in at that. The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun. The air, perfumed with the delicious fragrance of the new-mown grass, was vocal with the melodies of the birds; the thick foliage of the trees was glistening in the sunshine; all nature seemed happy and rejoicing; but, above all, the serene Sabbath stillness reigning around communicated a calm to her wounded spirit.
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