This was the sailor--second to none in the shallow
northern sea, where all marks had been removed, and every light
extinguished--accustomed to facing danger and avoiding it, to
foresee remote contingencies and provide against them, day and
night, week in, week out; a sailor, careful and intrepid. He had
the air of being capable of that concentration without which no man
can hope to steer a clear course at all.
"The horses that brought you from Marienwerder will not be fit for
the road till to-morrow morning," he said. "I will take you back to
Thorn at once, and--leave you there with Barlasch."
He glanced towards her, and she nodded, as if acknowledging the
sureness and steadiness of the hand at the helm.
"You can start early to-morrow morning, and be in Dantzig to-morrow
night."
They stood side by side in silence for some minutes. He was still
thinking of her journey--of the dangers and the difficulties of that
longer journey through life without landmark or light to guide her.
"And you?" she asked curtly.
He did not reply at once but busied himself with his ponderous fur
coat, which he buttoned, as if bracing himself for the start.
Beneath her lashes she looked sideways at the deliberate hands and
the lean strong face, burnt to a red-brown by sun and snow, half
hidden in the fur collar of his worn and weather-beaten coat.
"Konigsberg," he answered, "and Riga."
A light passed through her watching eyes, usually so kind and gay;
like the gleam of jealousy.
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