simple. The  two  of them being lonely together
had at times weighed heavily on her, but there had formed within her by then
that  fold  of inner shyness, that suffering wrinkle which prevents one from
bringing  or  receiving cheer. Others mocked her, saying:  "She's touched in
the head", "out of her mind" -- she had become accustomed to this pain, too.
The  girl had even suffered insults, after  which  her breast  would ache as
from a  blow. She was not a popular girl in Kaperna, although many suspected
that there was more to  her than to  others--but in a different tongue.  The
men  of Kaperna adored stout, heavy-limbed  women  with  oily skin  on their
large calves arid powerful  arms; they courted them here by slapping them on
the back
     and jostling them as they would in a crowded market place. The style of
such emotion resembled the unsophisticated  simplicity of a  roar. Assol was
as well suited to this determined milieu as the society of a ghost would  be
to extremely high-strung  people, had  it  even  possessed all the charm  of
Assunta or Aspasia; anything resembling love  here was out of  the question.
Thus, meeting the  steady blast of a soldier's bugle, the sweet sadness of a
violin is powerless to bring the stern regiment out from under the influence
of its straight planes.  The girl  stood with her back to all that has  been
said in these lines.
     While  she was humming  a song of  life,  her small hands  were working
swiftly and adroitly; biting off a thread,  she looked off, but this did not
stop her from turning the hem evenly or stitching it  with the accuracy of a
sewing machine. Although Longren did  not return,  she was not worried about
her father. Of late, he had often set out  fishing  in his boat  at night or
simply for  some air. Fear did not gnaw at her: she knew  that no ill  would
befall him. In this respect Assol  was still the little girl that had prayed
in her own way, lisping  fondly, "Good morning, God!"  in the  morning  and:
"Goodbye, God!" in the evening.
     In  her opinion such  a  first-hand  acquaintance  with  God was  quite
sufficient for Him  to  ward off  any disaster. She  imagined herself in His
place: God was  forever occupied with the affairs of millions of people and,
therefore, she believed that  one should regard the ordinary shadows of life
with  the polite patience of a  guest who,  discovering the  house  full  of
people,  waits for the bustling host,  finding  food and shelter as best  he
can.
     Having done with her sewing, Assol folded her work on the corner table,
undressed and went to  bed. The lamp had been  turned  off. She soon noticed
that she was not sleepy; her mind  was  as clear as it was in  the middle of
the  day,  and  even the darkness seemed  artificial; her body, as her mind,
felt  carefree and dayish. Her heart  beat  as rapidly as a pocket watch; it
seemed to be beating  between the pillow and her ear. Assol was annoyed; she
twisted  and turned, now flinging off  the blanket, now  rolling  up  in it,
pulling  it over her head. At  last  she was able to  bring on the  familiar
scene that  helped her to fall asleep: she imagined herself  tossing pebbles
into clear  water and watching the faint circles grow wider and wider. Sleep
seemed to have been awaiting this handout; it came, whispered with Mary, who
stood  at  the  head of the  bed and,  obeying  her  smile,  said "Shhh"  to
everything all around. Assol was asleep instantly. She dreamed her favourite
dream:  of  blossoming trees, a  yearning,  enchantment,  songs and  strange
scenes, of which, upon  awakening, she could recall only the glitter  of the
blue water rising from  her feet to her heart with a chill of delight. After
dreaming of all this, she remained in  that  improbable world  for  a  while
longer and then awakened fully and sat up.
     She was  not at all sleepy, quite as if she  had  not  fallen asleep at
all. A feeling of novelty, of joy and a desire for  action welled up in her.
She  looked around with the eyes of one  examining a  new room. Dawn  seeped
in--not with  the complete  lucidity  of illumination,  but with that  faint
effort through which  one can  comprehend one's surroundings. The  bottom of
the window was black; the top had become light. Without, by the edge  of the
window  frame, the  morning star twinkled. Knowing  that  she would not fall
asleep again, Assol dressed, went over to the window and, raising  the hook,
opened  it. An attentive, clear silence  reigned outside;  it seemed to have
only  now  descended. In  the blue twilight the bushes shimmered; farther on
the trees slept; the air was heavy and smelled of the earth.
     Leaning her  hand on  the top  of the  frame, the girl looked  out  and
smiled. Suddenly, something akin  to a  distant call stirred  her  both from
within and without, and she seemed to awaken once again from obvious reality
to that  which was clearer still and still more  doubtless. From that moment
on she was  caught  up  by  an  exultant richness  of  consciousness.  Thus,
comprehending them, we listen  to words spoken by others, but if one were to
repeat that which was said, we would come to understand them once again with
a different, a new meaning. She, too, now experienced this.
     Picking up  an  old  but, when she  wore  it, ever  fresh  and new silk
kerchief,  she grasped it under her chin with  one hand, locked the door and
darted out onto the road
     barefoot.  Although  all  was  deserted  and  still,  she  imagined she
resounded like an orchestra and could actually be heard. Everything  pleased
her, everything gladdened her eye. The warm dust tickled her bare  feet; the
air was clear and a joy  to breathe. The rooftops and clouds were etched  in
black against the  clearing  twilight of  the sky; the fences, briar  roses,
gardens,  orchards and the faintly seen road all dozed. In  everything there
was noticeable a different order  than during the  day--the same, yet, in  a
conformity that  had formerly  evaded  one. Everything slept with open eyes,
furtively examining the passing girl.
     She quickened her step as she got farther away, in a hurry to leave the
village behind.  There were meadows beyond Kaperna; beyond the meadows hazel
bushes, poplars and chestnut trees dotted  the slopes of the hills along the
shore. At the spot where the road ended and continued as an overgrown  path,
a silky little black dog with a white chest and eyes tensed to speak circled
gently by Assol's feet. The dog, recognizing Assol, walked along beside her,
squealing  from time  to time and wriggling its body coquettishly,  silently
agreeing  with  the girl about  something as clear as "you" and "me". Assol,
glancing into its communicative eyes,  was convinced that the dog could have
spoken  if it had  not had a  secret  reason for not doing so. Glimpsing its
companion's smile, the dog crinkled its nose cheerfully, wagged its tail and
trotted on ahead, but  suddenly  sat down indifferently,  scratched  its ear
which had been bitten by its eternal enemy, and ran off.
     Assol entered the tall meadow grass that splashed dew upon her; holding
her hand out, palm-down, above its spikelets, she walked  on, smiling at the
streaming touch.  Peering into the  very  special  faces of the flowers, the
confusion of stems, she could make out allusions--poses, efforts, movements,
features and expressions that were nearly human; she would not now have been
surprised at a procession of field mice, a gophers' ball or the rough antics
of a  hedgehog,  scaring a sleeping  gnome with  its huffing. Indeed, a grey
ball  of  a  hedgehog  rolled across  her  path.  "Humph-humph,"  it snorted
angrily, like a cabbie at a pedestrian. Assol spoke with those  whom she saw
and  understood. "Hello, poor thing," she said to a purple, worm-eaten iris.
"You'd better stay home for a  while,"--this was said to  a bush stranded in
the  middle  of the  path  and, therefore, lacking  leaves torn  off by  the
clothes of passers-by. A large beetle was clutching a  bluebell, pulling the
flower  down  and slipping, but scrabbling up  it stubbornly. "Shake off the
fat passenger," Assol  advised it. True enough, the beetle lost its grip and
flew  off  noisily.  Thus, with pounding heart, trembling and  flushed,  she
approached the slope  of  a hill and was  concealed from the openness of the
meadow  in the  thicket where she  was surrounded by true friends who -- and
she knew this--spoke in deep bass voices.
     These  were the  large  old trees that grew amongst the honeysuckle and
hazel bushes. Their drooping branches brushed the  top leaves of the bushes.
White flower cones  rose  among the  solemn  gravity  of the  large chestnut
leaves, their aroma blended with the scent of the dew and the sap. The path,
criss-crossed by the slippery bulges of roots, now dipped, now  clambered up
the slope.  Assol  felt at home here; she greeted the trees as if they  were
people, that  is, by pressing  their broad leaves. She walked on, whispering
to herself or aloud:  "Here you are, here's  another  you. How  many of  you
there are,  my friends! I'm in a hurry,  boys, let me pass! I  recognize you
all, I remember you and respect you." Her "boys" patted  her grandly as best
they could -- with their leaves -- and creaked with an air of kindredness in
reply.  Feet  muddied,  she made  her way out to the bluff above the sea and
stood  at  the  very  edge, breathing  hard  after  her  fast  walk. A deep,
unconquerable  faith rejoiced and bubbled exultantly inside of her. Her gaze
cast  it beyond the  horizon, from whence it returned in the faint  surge of
the incoming waves, proud in its clean flight.
     Meanwhile,  the  sea, stitched with a golden thread  along the horizon,
was still asleep; save at the foot of the bluff did the water rise and fall.
The steel grey of the sleeping ocean at the shore became blue and then black
farther off. Beyond the golden thread the sky, flaring up, glowed in a great
fan of light; the white clouds were now touched with pink.
     Delicate,   heavenly   tints   shimmered   within   them.  A  quivering
snow-whiteness spread across the distant  blackness; the foam  sparkled  and
the  blood-red  splash, flaring  up  along  the golden thread, sent  crimson
ripples across the ocean to Assol's feet.
     She sat down and hugged her knees. She leaned towards the sea and gazed
off  at  the  horizon  with  eyes that had grown large  and in which nothing
grown-up  remained at   all--with the eyes of a  child.  Everything she had
awaited so long and  so fervently was taking place there, at the end  of the
world.  In that land  of  distant abysses  she  imagined  an undersea  hill;
streaming thongs of seaweed snaked upward from its slopes; amongst the round
leaves pierced by a stem at the edge strange flowers shone. The upper leaves
glistened on the surface of the ocean; he who knew not what Assol knew would
see only a shimmering and glitter.
     A  ship rose from the  seaweed; it  surfaced  and  stopped in the  very
middle of the sunrise. From this great distance it was as clearly visible as
the  clouds. Radiating joy, it flamed like wine,  a rose,  blood, lips,  red
velvet and scarlet  fire. The ship  was heading straight towards  Assol. Two
wings of spray were cast up by the powerful thrust of its keel; rising,  the
girl  pressed her hands to her breast,  but the magic play  of light  became
ripples: the sun rose, and a bright fullness of morning tore the covers from
everything that still languished and stretched on the sleepy earth.
     The  girl sighed and looked around. The music had ended, but  Assol was
still under  the  spell  of its  ringing  chorus. This  impression gradually
weakened, then became a  memory and, finally, simply weariness. She lay down
in  the grass, yawned  and,  closing her eyes  blissfully,  fell asleep -- a
sleep as deep and sound as a young nut, without cares or dreams.
     She was awakened by a fly  crawling along her bare sole. Assol wriggled
her foot impatiently and awoke; sitting up, she  pinned back her dishevelled
hair and, therefore, Gray's ring  made itself known, but believing it to  be
simply a blade of grass that had become caught between her fingers, she held
them out.  However,  since the hindrance did not disappear,  she raised  her
hand to her eyes impatiently and instantly jumped to her feet with the force
of a shooting fountain.
     Gray's radiant ring sparkled on her finger as on someone else's, for at
this moment she  could  not claim it to be her  own,  she did  not feel  the
finger to belong to her.
     "Whose joke  is  this?  Whose  joke is  this?"  she cried. "Am I  still
sleeping? Maybe I found it and forgot about it?"
     She gripped  her right hand, on  which the  ring was placed,  with  her
left, looked around in wonder, searching out the  sea and the green thickets
with her gaze; but no one moved, no one was hiding in the bushes, and  there
was  no sign in the vastly  illumined blue sea. A flush  consumed Assol, and
the  voices of  her  heart  murmured  the  prophetic  "yes".  There  was  no
explanation  for  what had  happened,  but  she  found it  without  words of
thoughts in her  strange  feeling, and the ring now became dear to her.  She
trembled as she pulled it off her finger and held it in her cupped hand like
water as she examined  it--with her soul, her  heart,  the boundless joy and
clear superstition of youth--then, tucking it  into her bodice, Assol buried
her face in her hands from under which a smile strained to burst forth  and,
lowering her head, she slowly followed the road back home.
     Thus--by chance,  as people say who can read and write,--Gray and Assol
found each other on a summer's morning so full of inevitability.
        V. PREPARING FOR BATTLE
     After  Gray  returned  to  the  deck  of  the  Secret  he  stood  there
motionlessly for some  minutes, running his hand over his head from back  to
front, which  indicated a state of  utter confusion. Absent-mindedness --  a
veiled movement of the emotions--was reflected in the senseless smile of the
sleep-walker on his  face. His mate, Panten, was at that moment coming along
the quarter-deck, carrying a dish of fried fish; sighting Gray, he noted the
captain's strange state.
     "You're not hurt, are you, sir?" he  inquired cautiously.  "Where  were
you? What did you see?  Actually, though,  that's none of  my  business.  An
agent has offerred us a profitable cargo with a bonus. But what's the matter
with you, sir?"
     "Thank you," Gray said with a sigh, as if he had been untied. "That was
just what I needed, the sound of your simple, intelligent voice. It's like a
dash of cold  water. Tell the crew we're weighing anchor today,  Panten, and
moving  into the mouth of the Liliana, about ten miles from here. The  river
bed is dotted with shoals. Come for the chart. We won't need a pilot. That's
all  for  now....  Oh, yes, I need that profitable  cargo  like I need  last
year's snow. You  can tell  the agent  that's what I said. I'm going to town
now, and I'll be there till evening."
     "But what happened?"
     "Nothing at all, Panten. I want you to bear in mind my  desire to avoid
all questions. When the time comes, I'll tell you what it's all  about. Tell
the  crew  that  we'll put  up  for  repairs  and  that the local drydock is
occupied."
     "Yes, sir," Panten  replied dazedly to  Gray's  retreating  back. "Aye,
aye, sir."
     Although  the  captain's  orders  were  quite  sensible,  the mate  was
goggled-eyed  and raced off to his own  cabin, carrying the dish of fish and
mumbling:  "You're  puzzled, Panten.  Is he thinking of  trying his  hand at
smuggling?  Will we  be  flying the Jolly  Roger now?" At this Panten became
confused  by  the  wildest guesses. While he nervously wolfed down the fish,
Gray  went  to  his cabin, took out a  sum of money and,  crossing  the bay,
appeared  in  the  shopping  section  of  Liss.   Now,  however,   he  acted
determinedly and calmly, knowing down to the last detail  all  that he would
do on this wondrous journey. Each motion -- thought, movement--warmed him as
with the  refined joy of creative work. His plan  was  formed  instantly and
vividly. His understanding of  life had  undergone that  last  attack of the
chisel after which marble is serene in its magnificent glowing.
     Gray visited  three shops,  placing especial stress on the accuracy  of
his choice, since he was quite sure of the exact shade and colour he wanted.
In the  first two shops he was shown silk  of gaudy hues, intended to please
an  unsophisticated  vanity;  in the third  he found samples of  imaginative
tints. The shopkeeper bustled  about cheerfully, spreading  out fabrics from
his  old  stock, but Gray was  as  serious as  an  anatomist.  He  patiently
unfolded parcels  and bolts, laid them aside, moved them  together, unrolled
and brought up  to the light so many crimson strips that  the counter, piled
high with them, seemed about to burst into  flame. A scarlet  wave fell upon
the tip of Gray's boot; a pink reflection shone on his hands and face. As he
rummaged  among  the  slight  resistance  of the silk he noted  the colours:
cerise,  pink  and old  rose; the richly simmering cherry, orange and gloomy
iron reds; here there were  shades of all density and strength, as different
in  their  imaginary  kinship  as are the  words:  "charming",  "wonderful",
"magnificent", "exquisite"; in the folds there lurked allusions inaccessible
to the language  of the eyesight, but a true crimson tone evaded our captain
for  quite some time. The fabrics the  shopkeeper brought out were good, but
they did  not evoke a clear, firm  "yes". At last, one  colour attracted the
disarmed attention of the buyer;  he sat down in an armchair  by the window,
pulled a long strip  from the rustling  bolt,  dropped it on  his knees and,
sitting   back  with   his   pipe  clenched   between  his   teeth,   became
contemplatively still.
     This colour, as  absolutely pure as a crimson ray of morning,  full  of
noble joy and regality, was just exactly the proud colour Gray was searching
for. It did  not contain the mixed shades of fire, poppy petals, the play of
lilac or purple tints; nor was there any  blueness  or shadow --  nothing to
raise  any  doubt.  It glowed  like  a  smile with  the  charm of  spiritual
reflection.  Gray  became  so  lost  in  thought  that  he  forgot about the
shopkeeper  who  stood at his elbow  with the  alertness  of  a  hunting dog
pointing. Tiring of waiting, the merchant called attention to himself by the
crack of a piece of cloth being ripped.
     "That's enough samples," Gray said, rising. "I'm taking this silk."
     "The  whole bolt?" the  merchant  asked, politely  doubting.  But  Gray
stared at his forehead in silence, which prodded
     the shopkeeper to assume an undue familiarity. "How many metres, then?"
     Gray nodded, as if telling the man to wait, and, with a pencil, figured
the amount he needed on a slip of paper.
     "Two  thousand metres."  He inspected  the shelves dubiously. "Not more
than two thousand metres."
     "Two?"  said the shopkeeper, jumping like a jack-in-the-box. "Thousand?
Metres?  Please sit down, Captain. Would you like to see our latest samples,
Captain? As you wish. May I offer you  a match, and  some excellent tobacco?
Two thousand ... two thousand at...." He named a price  which had as much to
do with  the  real price  as a  vow  does with a simple  "yes", but Gray was
satisfied, because he did not wish to bargain over anything. "A magnificent,
excellent  silk," the  shopkeeper was  saying, "unexcelled  in  quality. You
won't find this anyplace else but here."
     When the man had finally run out of laudation,  Gray arranged  to  have
the silk delivered, paid his bill, including this service,  and left. He was
seen to the door by the shopkeeper with as much pomp as if he were a Chinese
emperor. Meanwhile, somewhere  nearby,  a street musician,  having tuned his
cello,  drew his  bow  gently  across  it,  making it  speak out  sadly  and
wonderfully; his comrade, the flutist, showered the  singing  of the strings
with a trilling of throaty whistling; the simple song with which they filled
the  sun-sleepy yard reached Gray's ears, and he  knew instantly what he had
to do. Actually, all these days he had  existed at that propitious height of
spiritual vision  from  which he could  clearly note  every hint  and prompt
offered  by  reality.  Upon  hearing  the  sounds,  drowned out  by  passing
carriages, he entered  into the very heart of the most important impressions
and thoughts  brought forth, in keeping  with his nature, by this music, and
could foresee why and how that which he had thought  of would turn out well.
Passing the lane,  Gray entered the gate of the  house from  where the music
was coming. By this  time the musicians were getting ready  to move  on; the
tall flutist, with an air of dignity  brought low, waved his hat  gratefully
at  those windows from which coins  were tossed.  The cello was locked under
its owner's  arm again;  he  was mopping his  wet  brow  and waiting for the
flutist.
     "Why,  it's you, Zimmer!"  Gray  said to him, recognizing the violinist
who entertained the seamen  in  the evenings with his magnificent playing at
the Money on the Barrel Inn. "Why have you forsaken your violin?"
     "Dear  Captain,"  Zimmer objected smugly, "I play  anything  that makes
sounds and rattles. In my youth I was a musical  clown. I have now developed
a passion for art,  and  I realize with a  heavy heart that  I've squandered
away a real  talent. That is why, from a feeling of late-come greed, I  love
two  at  once: the cello and the violin. I play the cello in the daytime and
the violin in the evening, so that I seem to be weeping, to  be sobbing over
a lost talent.  Will you offer me some wine? Hm? The cello is my Carmen, but
the violin...."
     "Is Assol," Gray said.
     Zimmer misunderstood.
     "Yes," he nodded, "a solo played on cymbals or brass pipes is something
else again. However,  what  do I  care? Let  the clowns  of  art grimace and
twitch -- I know that fairies dwell within the violin and the cello."
     "And what dwells in my tur-i-loo?" the flutist asked  as he walked  up.
He was a tall fellow with a sheep's blue eyes and a curly blond beard. "Tell
me that now."
     "It  all  depends  on  how much  you've had  to  drink  since  morning.
Sometimes  it's a bird,  and  sometimes  it's liquor  fumes. Captain,  may I
present my  partner  Diiss? I  told him  about the way  you throw your money
around  when  you're  drinking, and he's  fallen  in love  with  you,  sight
unseen."
     "Yes," Diiss said, "I love a grand  gesture  and generosity. But I'm  a
sly fellow, so don't trust my vile flattery."
     "Well,  now,"  Gray said and smiled,  "I'm  pressed  for time, and  the
matter  is urgent.  I can offer  you a chance to earn some good  money.  Put
together an orchestra,  but not  one  that's  made up  of  fops with funeral
parlour  faces  who've  forgotten  in  their   musical  pedantry  or,--worse
still--in their gastronomical soundings, all about the soul of music and are
slowly spreading a pall  over the  stage with their intricate noises,--  no.
Get together  your  friends  who  can  make the simple hearts  of  cooks and
butlers weep, get
     together  your  wandering  tribe. The  sea  and love do  not stand  for
pedants. I'd love to  have a  drink  with you and  polish  off more than one
bottle, but I must go.  I've got a lot to attend to. Take this and  drink to
the letter A. If you accept my proposition, come to the Secret this evening.
It's moored near the first dam."
     "Right!" Zimmer cried, knowing that Gray paid like a king. "Bow, Diiss,
say 'yes'  and  twirl your  hat from  joy! Captain Gray  has decided  to get
married!"
     "Yes," Gray replied  simply.  "I'll  tell  you the details on board the
Secret. As for you...."
     "Here's to A!"  Diiss nudged  Zimmer and winked at  Gray. "But... there
are so many letters in the alphabet!  Won't  you give  us  something for  Z,
too?"
     Gray gave them some more money. The musicians departed. He then went to
a commission agent and placed a secret order for a rush job, to be completed
in six day's time, and costing an impressive amount. As Gray returned to his
ship the  agent was  boarding  a  steamboat. Towards  evening the  silk  was
delivered; Letika had  not yet returned, nor had the musicians arrived; Gray
went off to talk to Panten.
     It should be noted that in  the course  of several years Gray had  been
sailing with the same crew. At first, the captain had puzzled the sailors by
the eccentric nature  of his voyages and  stops--which  sometimes lasted for
months--in the most trade-lacking, unpopulated places, but in time they were
inspired by Gray's "grayism". Often he would sail with ballast alone, having
refused to take on a  profitable cargo for  the sole reason  that he did not
like  the freight offered. No one could ever talk him into taking on  a load
of soap, nails,  machine parts or some such that  would lie  silently in the
hold, evoking lifeless images of dull necessity. But he was always  ready to
take on fruit, china, animals, spices,  tea, tobacco, coffee, silk and  rare
varieties of wood: ebony, sandalwood and teak. All this was in  keeping with
the aristocratism . of  his imagination, creating a  picturesque atmosphere;
small wonder then that the crew of the Secret, having been  nurtured thus in
the spirit of originality,  should look down somewhat upon all other  ships,
engulfed as they were in the smoke of plain, ordinary profit. Still and all,
this time Gray noted their questioning  looks:  even the dumbest sailor knew
that there was no need to put up for repairs in a forest river.
     Panten had naturally passed Gray's orders on to them. When Gray entered
his  mate  was finishing his sixth cigar  and pacing up and down  the cabin,
dizzy from so much smoke and stumbling over chairs. Evening was approaching;
a golden shaft of light  protruded through  the open porthole, and in it the
polished visor of the captain's cap flashed.
     "Everything's  shipshape," Panten said sullenly.  "We can weigh  anchor
now if you wish."
     "You  should  know  me by  now," Gray said kindly. "There's no  mystery
about what I'm doing. As soon as we drop anchor in the Liliana I'll tell you
all about it, and you won't  have to waste so  many matches on cheap cigars.
Go on and weigh anchor."
     Panten smiled uncomfortably and scratched an eyebrow.
     "Yes, I know. Not that I ... all right."
     After he was gone  Gray sat very still for a while, looking out of  the
door that was slightly ajar, and then went  to his own cabin. There he first
sat,  then  lay  down and then, listening  to the  clatter  of  the windlass
pulling up the loud chain, was about  to go up  to the forecastle  deck  but
fell to pondering and returned to the table where his  finger drew a  quick,
straight line across the  oilcloth. A fist struck against  the door  brought
him out of his maniacal trance;  he turned the key,  letting in Letika.  The
sailor, panting loudly, stood there looking like a messenger who has averted
an execution at the very last moment.
     "Let's go, Letika, I said to myself from where I stood on the pier," he
said,  speaking  rapidly,  "when  I  saw  the  boys here  dancing around the
windlass and spitting on their hands. I have an eagle-eye. And I flew. I was
breathing down the  boatman's back so hard he broke out  in a nervous sweat.
Did you want to leave me behind, Captain?"
     "Letika," Gray said,  peering  at his bloodshot  eyes,  "I expected you
back no later than this morning. Did you pour cold water on the back of vour
head?"
     "Yes.  Not as much  as  went  down  the hatch,  but  I did.  I've  done
everything."
     "Let's have it."
     "There's  no  sense  talking, Captain. It's all written down here. Read
it. I did my best. I'm leaving."
     "Where to?"
     "I can see by the  look on  your face  that I  didn't  pour enough cold
water on my head."
     He turned  and  exited  with the strange movements of a blind man. Gray
unfolded the  slip of paper;  the pencil  must  have  been  surprised  as it
produced the  scrawl that resembled a crooked fence. This is what Letika had
written:
     "Following orders. I went  down the street after 5 p.m.  A house with a
grey roof and two windows on either  side; it has  a  vegetable  garden. The
person in question came out twice:  once for water and once for kindling for
the stove. After  dark was able to look into the window, but saw  nothing on
account of the curtain."
     There followed several  notations of a domestic nature which Letika had
apparently gleaned in conversation over a bottle, since the memorandum ended
rather abruptly with the words: "Had to  add a bit of my  own to square  the
bill."
     However, the gist  of the report stated  but that which we know of from
the first  chapter. Gray  put the paper  in his desk, whistled for the watch
and sent the  man for  Panten, but the  boatswain Atwood  showed up instead,
hastily pulling down his rolled-up sleeves.
     "We've tied up  at the dam. Panten sent me down to  see what the orders
are.  He's busy  fighting off  some men with horns, drums and other violins.
Did you tell them to  come aboard? Panten asked you  to come up. He says his
head's spinning."
     "Yes, Atwood.  I  invited the  musicians aboard. Tell them to go to the
crew's quarters meanwhile. We'll see  to them later. Tell them and  the crew
I'll  be up  on  deck in  fifteen minutes, I want everyone in  attendance. I
presume you and Panten will also listen to what I have to say."
     Atwood cocked his left brow. He stood by the door for a few moments and
then sidled out.
     Gray spent  the next ten minutes with his face buried in his hands;  he
was not preparing himself for anything,  nor was he  calculating.  He simply
wished  to be  silent for a  while. In  the  meantime, everyone awaited  him
anxiously and with a curiosity full of surmise. He emerged and  saw in their
faces  an expectation  of  improbable things, but since  he  considered that
which  was  taking place to  be quite natural, the tenseness of  these other
people's souls was reflected in his own as a slight annoyance.
     "It's nothing out  of  the  ordinary," said Gray,  sitting  down on the
bridge ladder. "We'll lie to in the river till we change the rigging. You've
all seen the red silk that's been delivered.  The sailmaker Blent will be in
charge of making new sails  from it for the Secret. We'll then set sail, but
I can't say where to. At any rate, it won't be far from here. I am going for
my wife. She's not my wife yet, but she will be. I must have red sails on my
ship so that, according to the agreement, she can spot us from afar. That is
all. As you see, there's nothing mysterious  in all this.  And we'll say  no
more
     about it."
     "Indeed," said Atwood, sensing from the crew's  smiling faces that they
were  pleasantly surprised  but did  not  venture to  speak. "So  that's it,
Captain.... It's not for us to  judge. We can only obey. Everything'll be as
you wish. May I offer my congratulations." "Thank you!"
     Gray  gripped the boatswain's hand, but the  latter.through  superhuman
effort, returned the  handshake so firmly the captain yielded. Then the crew
came  up,  mumbling  words of  congratulations  with  one  man's warm  smile
replacing another's. No one  shouted,  no one cheered  -- for  the  men  had
sensed something very special in the captain's short speech. Panten heaved a
sigh of  relief and  brightened  visibly  -- the weight that  had lay on his
heart  melted  away.  The  ship's  carpenter was  the only  one  who  seemed
displeased. He shook Gray's hand listlessly and said
     morosely:
     "How'd you ever think of it, Captain?"
     "It was like a blow of your axe. Zimmer! Let's see your
     boys."
     The  violinist,  slapping  the  musicians  on  the  back,  pushed seven
sloppily dressed men out of the crowd.
     "Here," Zimmer said. "This is the trombone. He doesn't play, he blasts.
These two beardless  boys are trumpeters; when they start playing, everybody
feels like  going off to war. Then there's  the clarinet, the cornet and the
second fiddle. AH of them are past masters at accompanying the lively prima,
meaning  me.  And  here's the  headmaster of our  merry  band -- Fritz,  the
drummer. You know, drummers usually look  disappointed,  but  this one plays
with dignity and fervour.  There's something open-hearted and as straight as
his  drumsticks about  his playing.  Will  there be anything  else,  Captain
Gray?"
     "Magnificent.  A place has been set aside for you  in  the hold,  which
this  time,  apparently,  will be filled with all sorts of scherzos, adagios
and fortissimos. To your  places,  men. Cast off  and head out, Panten! I'll
relieve you in two hours."
     He did not notice the passing of these two hours, as they slipped by to
the  accompaniment  of  the  same  inner  music  that  never  abandoned  his
consciousness, as  the pulse does not abandon the arteries.  He  had but one
thought, one wish, one goal. Being  a  man  of action, in his mind's eye  he
anticipated the events, regretting  only that they could  not be manipulated
as  quickly  and  easily as  chequers  on a board.  Nothing about  his  calm
exterior bespoke the inner tension  whose booming, like  the  clanging  of a
great  bell overhead, reverberated through his body  as a deafening, nervous
moan. It  finally caused  him to begin  counting to  himself: "One... two...
thirty..."--and so on, until he said:  "One thousand."  This mental exercise
had its effect; he was finally able to take a detached view of  the project.
He was somewhat surprised at not being able  to imagine what Assol  was like
as a person, for he had never even spoken to her. He had once read  that one
could, though incompletely, understand a person if, imaging one's self to be
that  person,  one imitated  the expression of  his  face. Gray's  eyes  had
already begun to assume a strange expression that was alien to them, and his
lips  under his moustache were curling up into a faint, timid smile, when he
suddenly  came  to  his senses,  burst out laughing  and went  up to relieve
Panten.
     It was dark. Panten had raised the collar of  his jacket and was pacing
back and forth by the compass, saying to the helmsman:
     "Port, one quarter point. Port. Stop. A quarter point
     more."
     The Secret was sailing free at half tack.
     "You know," Panten said to Gray, "I'm pleased."
     "What by?"
     "The same  thing you are. Now I know. It came  to me right here on  the
bridge." He winked slyly as the fire of his pipe lighted his smile.
     "You  don't  say?"  Gray  replied,  suddenly  understanding what he was
getting at. "And what do you know?"
     "It's the best way  to smuggle it in. Anybody can have whatever kind of
sails he wants to. You're a genius, Gray!"
     "Poor old Panten!" the captain said, not knowing whether to be angry or
to laugh. "Your guess is a clever one, but it lacks any basis in fact. Go to
bed.  You have  my  word  for it that  you're wrong.  I'm doing exactly as I
said."
     He sent him down to sleep, checked  their course and sat down. We shall
leave him now, for he needs to be by himself.
        VI. ASSOL REMAINS ALONE
     Longren spent the night at sea; he neither slept nor fished, but sailed
along without any definite course, listening  to the lapping  of  the water,
gazing into the blackness, holding his  face up to the wind and thinking. At
the most difficult times  of his life nothing so  restored his soul as these
lonely wanderings. Stillness, stillness and solitude were  what he needed in
order to make  the  faintest,  most obscure voices of his  inner world sound
clearly. This  night  his thoughts  were of the future,  of  poverty  and of
Assol. It was unbearably difficult for him to leave her, if only for a short
while;  besides, he  was  afraid of resurrecting  the  abated pain. Perhaps,
after signing up on a ship, he
     would again imagine that waiting for him in Kaperna was his beloved who
had never died--and, returning, he would approach  the house with the  grief
of lifeless expectation. Mary  would never again come through the  door. But
he wanted to  provide  for  Assol  and,  therefore, decided to do  what  his
concern for her demanded he do.
     When Longren returned the girl was not yet at home. Her early walks did
not worry her father; this  time, however, there  was  a trace of anxiety in
his expectation. Pacing up and down, he turned to suddenly see Assol; having
entered  swiftly  and  soundlessly, she came up  to him  without a  word and
nearly frightened him by  the brightness  of  her expression, which mirrored
her excitement. It  seemed  that her second being  had come  to  light--true
being  to  which  a person's eyes alone usually attest.  She was  silent and
looked into Longren's face so strangely that he quickly inquired:
     "Are you ill?"
     She did not immediately reply.  When the  meaning  of his words finally
reached  her inner  ear  Assol started,  as a twig  touched by  a hand,  and
laughed a long, even  peal of  quietly  triumphant laughter. She  had to say
something but, as always, she did not have to think of what it would be. She
said:
     "No.  I'm  well.... Why  are you  looking at me like  that?  I'm happy.
Really, I am, but it's because it's such a lovely day. What have you thought
of? I can see by your look that you've thought of something."
     "Whatever I may have thought of," Longren said, taking her  on his lap,
"I know you'll  understand why I'm  doing it.  We've  nothing to live on.  I
won't  go on  a  long voyage again, but I'll sign on the mailboat that plies
between Kasset and Liss."
     "Yes," she said  from  afar,  making an effort to share his  cares  and
worries, but  aghast at  being unable to stop feeling so gay. "That's awful.
I'll be very lonely. Come back soon." Saying this,  she blossomed out  in an
irrepressible smile. "And hurry, dear. I'll be waiting for you."
     "Assol!" Longren said, cupping her face and turning it towards himself.
"Tell me what's happened."
     She felt she had to  dispel his fears and,  overcoming  her jubilation,
became gravely attentive, all save her eyes, which still sparkled with a new
life.
     "You're funny. Nothing at all. I was gathering nuts."
     Longren would not have really believed this had he not been so taken up
by  his  own  thoughts. Their  conversation then became  matter-of-fact  and
detailed. The sailor told his daughter  to pack his bag, enumerated  all  he
would need and had some instructions for her:
     "I'll be  back in about ten days. You  pawn my gun and stay at home. If
anyone annoys  you,  say: 'Longren will be back soon.' Don't think or  worry
about me: nothing will happen to me."
     He then had his dinner,  kissed her  soundly and, slinging the bag over
his shoulder, went out to the  road that led to town. Assol looked after him
until he turned the bend and then  went back  into the  house. She  had many
chores to do, but forgot all about them. She looked around with the interest
of slight surprise, as if she were already astrangerto this house, so much a
part  of her  for as  far back as  she  could recall that it seemed  she had
always  carried its image  within  her, and which  now appeared  like  one's
native parts do when revisited after a  lapse of  time and from  a different
kind of  life. But she felt there was something unbecoming in this rebuff of
hers, something wrong. She  sat  down at the table at which Longren made his
toys and tried  to glue a rudder to a stern; as she looked at these  objects
she unwittingly imagined them in their true sizes, and  real.  All that  had
happened that morning once again rose up within her in trembling excitement,
and a golden ring as large as the sun fell to her feet from across the sea.
     She could not remain indoors, left the house  and set out for Liss, She
had no errand there at all, and did not know  why she was  going,  yet could
not but go. She met a man on the way who asked for directions; she explained
all in detail to him, and the incident was immediately forgotten.
     The long  road slipped by as  if she had been carrying a bird  that had
completely  absorbed her  tender attention. Approaching  the town,  she  was
distracted somewhat by the
     noise given off by its great circle, but  it had  no power  over her as
before, when, frightening and cowing  her,  it had made her a silent coward.
She stood  up to it. She passed along the circle of the boulevard leisurely,
crossing  the blue  shadows  of the  trees, glancing  up  at  the  faces  of
passers-by trustingly and unselfconsciously, walking slowly and confidently.
The observant had occassion during  the  day to note the  stranger  here, an
unusual-looking  girl  who  had passed  through  the  motley  crowd, lost in
thought. In the square she held her  hand out  to the stream of water in the
fountain, fingering the sparkling  spray; then she sat down, rested a  while
and returned to the forest road. She traversed it in refreshed spirits, in a
mood as peaceful and clear as a stream in evening that had finally exchanged
the flashing  mirrors  of  the  day  for  the  calm  glow  of  the  shadows.
Approaching the village, she  saw the  selfsame coalman who had imagined his
basket sprouting blossoms; he was standing beside his cart with two strange,
sullen men who were covered with soot and dirt. Assol was very pleased.
     "Hello, Phillip. What are you doing here?"
     "Nothing, Midge. A wheel got  loose.  I fixed it, and now I'm  having a
smoke and talking to my friends. Where were you?"
     Assol did not reply.
     "You know, Phillip,  I like  you very  much, and that's why  you're the
only one I'm telling this to. I'll be leaving soon.  I'll probably  be going
away for good. Don't tell anyone, though."
     "You mean you want to go away? Where to?" The coalman was  so surprised
he gaped, which made his beard still longer than it was.
     "I don't know." Slowly, she took  in the clearing, the elm under  which
the  cart stood,  the  grass  that was  so green in the  pink twilight,  the
silent, grimy coalmen and added after a pause:  "I don't  know. I don't know
the day  or the hour, or  even where it'll  be. I can't tell  you  any more.
That's why  I  want to say goodbye, just in  case. You've often  given me  a
lift."
     She took his huge, soot-blackened hand and more or less managed to give
it a shake. The  worker's face cracked in  a  stiff  smile. The girl nodded,
turned and  walked off. She  disappeared even before Phillip and his friends
had a chance to turn their heads.
     "Ain't  it a wonder?" the  coalman  said.  "How's a body  to understand
that? There's something about her today ... funny, like, I mean."
     "You're right," the second  man agreed. "You can't tell whether she was
just  saying that  or  trying  to  make  us  believe her.  It's none of  our
business."
     "It's none of our business," said the third and sighed.
     Then  the three of them got into the cart and, as the  wheels clattered
over the rocky road, disappeared in a cloud of dust.
        VII. THE CRIMSON SECRET
     It was  a  white  hour of  morning; a faint  mist crowded with  strange
phantoms filled  the  great forest. An  unnamed hunter, having just left his
campfire, was making his way parallel  to the  river; the light  of its airy
emptiness  glimmered through the trees,  but  the  cautious hunter  did  not
approach  the  river  as he  examined the fresh tracks of a  bear  that  was
heading for the mountains.
     A  sudden sound rushed through the trees with the  unexpectedness of an
alarming chase; it was the clarinet bursting into song. The musician, having
come up on deck, played a passage full of  sad and mournful  repetition. The
sound trembled like a voice concealing grief; it rose, smiled in a sad trill
and ended abruptly. A distant echo hummed the same melody faintly.
     The hunter, marking the  tracks with a broken twig, made his way to the
water. The  fog had not  yet lifted; it  obscured the  silhouette of a large
ship turning slowly out of the river. Its furled sails came to life, hanging
down in festoons, coming unfurled  and covering the masts with the  helpless
shields of their huge folds; he could hear voices and the
     sound  of steps. The off-shore wind, attempting to blow,  picked at the
sails lazily; finally, the sun's warmth had the desired effect; the pressure
of the wind increased, lifted the fog and streamed  along the yards into the
light crimson shapes so full of roses. Rosy  shadows slipped along the white
of  the masts  and rigging, and everything  was  white except  the unfurled,
full-blown sails which were the colour of true
     joy-The  hunter, staring  from the bank, rubbed his eyes hard  until he
was  finally  convinced  that  what  he was  seeing was  indeed  so  and not
otherwise. The  ship  disappeared around a  bend,  but he still stood there,
staring; then, shrugging, he went after his bear.
     While the Secret sailed  along the  river,  Gray stood at the helm, not
trusting it to the helmsman, for  he was afraid of shoals. Panten sat beside
him, freshly-shaven and sulking resignedly, and wearing a  new worsted  suit
and a shiny  new cap.  As before, he saw no connection  between  the crimson
magnificence and Gray's intentions.
     "Now," said  Gray, "when my sails are glowing, the wind is fair and  my
heart is  overflowing  with  joy  that  is greater  than  what  an  elephant
experiences at the  sight of  a small bun, I shall try  to attune  you to my
thoughts  as  I promised  back in Liss.  Please bear  in  mind that  I don't
consider you  dull-witted or stubborn, no;  you are an exemplary seaman  and
this means a lot. But you, as  the great majority of others, hear the voices
of all the simple  truths through the thick  glass of  life; they shout, but
you will not hear them. What I'm doing exists  as an old-fashioned belief in
the beautiful and  unattainable,  and what, actually, is  as attainable  and
possible  as a  picnic.  You  will soon see a girl who  cannot, who must not
marry otherwise  than  in  the manner  I  am  following and  which  you  are
witnessing."
     He related in short that which we know so well, concluding thus:
     "You see how closely entwined here are fate, will and human nature; I'm
going to the one  who is waiting and  can wait for me alone,  while I do not
want any other but her, perhaps just because, thanks  to her, I've  come  to
understand a  simple truth, namely:  you must  make  so-called miracles come
true yourself. When  a  person  places  the  most  importance on  getting  a
treasured copper  it's not hard to  give him that copper, but  when the soul
cherishes  the seed of  an ardent plant--a  miracle, make  this miracle come
true for it if you can.
     "This person's soul will  change and yours will,  too.  When the  chief
warden releases a  prisoner of his own free will,  when a  billionaire gives
his scribe a villa, a chorus girl and  a safe, and when a jockey holds  back
his horse just once to let  an unlucky  horse pass him,-- then everyone will
understand how pleasant this is, how inexpressibly wonderful. But there  are
miracles of no  less magnitude: a smile,  merriment, forgiveness and ... the
right word spoken opportunely. If one  possesses this--one possesses all. As
for me,  our  beginning--Assol's and  mine--will  forever remain to  us in a
crimson glow of sails, created by the depths of a heart that knows what love
is. Have you understood me?"
     "Yes,  Captain." Panten cleared his throat and wiped his moustache with
a  neatly-folded,  clean  handkerchief.  "I  understand  everything.  You've
touched my heart. I'll go below and  tell Nicks  I'm sorry I cursed him  for
sinking  a pail yesterday. And  I'll  give  him some tobacco--he lost his at
cards yesterday."
     Before Gray, who was somewhat  surprised at the quick practical  effect
his words had had, was able  to reply, Panten had  clattered down the ladder
and heaved a  sigh in  the distance.  Gray looked  up over his shoulder; the
crimson sails billowed silently above him; the sun in their seams shone as a
purple mist. The Secret was heading out  to sea, moving away from the shore.
There was no doubt in Gray's ringing soul -- no dull pounding of anxiety, no
bustle of  small worries; as calmly  as  a sail  was he straining towards  a
heavenly goal, his mind full of those thoughts which forestall words.
     The  puffs of  smoke  of a naval cruiser  appeared  on the horizon. The
cruiser changed its course and, from a distance  of half a mile, raised  the
signal that stood for "lie to".
     "They won't shell us, boys," Gray said. "Don't worry! They simply can't
believe their eyes."
     He gave the order  to lie to. Panten, shouting as if there were a fire,
brought the Secret out of the wind; the ship stopped,  while a steam  launch
manned by a crew and lieutenant  in white gloves  sped towards them from the
cruiser;  the  lieutenant,  stepping  aboard  the  ship,  looked  around  in
amazement  and followed Gray to his  cabin, from  which  he emerged an  hour
later,  smiling as if he had just been promoted and, with an awkward wave of
his hand,  headed  back to  his blue cruiser. This time  Gray had apparently
been more successful than he had with  the unsophisticated Panten, since the
cruiser,  pausing shortly,  blasted the  horizon  with a  mighty salvo whose
swift  bursts  of smoke, ripping through the  air  in great, flashing balls,
furled  away  over  the still  waters.  All day  long  there  was  an air of
half-festive bewilderment on board the  cruiser; the mood was definitely not
official, it was one of awe -- under the  sign of love, of which  there  was
talk everywhere,-- from the officers' mess to the engine  room; the watch on
duty in the torpedo section asked a passing sailor:
     "How'd you get married, Tom?"
     "I caught  her  by the  skirt  when  she tried to  escape  through  the
window," Tom said and twirled his moustache proudly.
     For some time after the Secret plied the empty sea, out of sight of the
shore;  towards noon  they  sighted  the  distant  shore.  Gray  lifted  his
telescope and  trained it on Kaperna.  If not  for a row of roofs,  he would
have spotted Assol  sitting over a book by  the window in one of the houses.
She was  reading; a  small  greenish beetle  was  crawling  along  the page,
stopping and rising up on its front legs, looking very independent and tame.
It had already been blown  peevishly onto the window-sill twice, from whence
it  had reappeared as trustingly and unafraid  as if it had had something to
say. This time it managed to get nearly as  far as the girl's hand which was
holding  the corner  of  the page; here it got  stuck  on  the word  "look",
hesitated  as if awaiting a new squall and, indeed, barely  escaped trouble,
since Assol had already exclaimed: "Oh!  That...  silly bug!"--and was about
to blow the visitor right into  the grass when a chance shifting of her eyes
from one rooftop to another revealed to her in  the blue strip of sea at the
end of the street a white ship with crimson sails.
     She  started  visibly,  leaned back and froze; then she  jumped up, her
heart sinking  dizzily,  and  burst into  uncontrollable  tears of  inspired
shock. Meanwhile, the Secret  was rounding  a  small  cape,  its  port  side
towards the shore; soft music wafted over the light-blue hollow, coming from
the  white deck  beneath  the crimson  silk;  the music of a  lilting melody
expressed not too successfully by the well-known words: "Fill,  fill up your
glasses  --  and let  us drink to  love...."  In its  simplicity,  exulting,
excitement unfurled and rumbled.
     Unmindful of how  she had left the  house,  Assol ran towards  the sea,
caught up  by the irresistible wind of events; she stopped at the very first
corner, nearly  bereft  of strength; her knees buckled,  her breath came  in
gasps and consciousness hung by a thread. Beside herself from fear of losing
her determination, she stamped her foot and ran on.  Every now  and  then  a
roof or a fence would  hide the crimson sails from view; then, fearful  lest
they had disappeared like some ordinary  mirage, she would hurry to pass the
tormenting obstacle and, sighting the ship once again, would stop to heave a
sigh of relief.
     Meanwhile, there was such commotion, such an uproar and such excitement
in Kaperna as was comparable to the effect of the  famous earthquakes. Never
before had a  large ship  approached this shore; the ship had the  very same
sails whose colour sounded like a taunt; now  they were blazing brightly and
incontestably with the  innocence  of a fact that  refutes  all  the laws of
being and common sense. Men, women and children  were racing  helter-skelter
towards the shore; the inhabitants shouted to each other over their  fences,
bumped into each other, howled and tumbled; soon a crowd had gathered at the
water's edge, and into the crowd Assol rushed.
     As long as she  was not there her name was tossed around with a nervous
and  sullen tenseness, with hateful fear. The  men did  most of the talking;
the thunderstruck women sobbed  in a choked, snake-like hissing, but  if one
did begin to rattle -- the poison rose to her head. The moment Assol
     appeared everyone became silent, everyone moved away from  her in fear,
and she  remained alone on the empty stretch of hot sand, at a  loss, shamed
and  happy,  with  a face  no  less crimson  than  her  miracle,  helplessly
stretching her hands towards the tall ship.
     A  rowboat manned by  bronzed oarsmen detached  itself  from  the ship;
among  them stood he whom  she  now felt she had known,  had  dimly recalled
since  childhood.  He  was looking at  her with  a  smile which  warmed  and
beckoned.  But thousands  of last-stand, silly fears  gripped Assol; deathly
afraid of  everything--an error, misunderstanding, some  mysterious  or evil
hindrance -- she plunged waist-deep into the warm undulation of  the  waves,
shouting: "I'm here, I'm here! It's me!"
     Then  Zimmer  raised  his  bow -- and the  very same melody struck  the
nerves of the crowd,  but this time it was  a full-voiced, triumphant choir.
From excitement, the  motion  of the clouds and  waves, the  glitter of  the
water and the distance the girl was  hardly able to discern what was moving:
she  herself, the ship or  the rowboat,--everything was moving, spinning and
falling.
     But an oar slashed  the water next  to  her;  she raised her head. Gray
bent down, and her hands gripped his belt.
     Assol shut her eyes tight; then she opened them quickly,  smiled boldly
into his beaming face and said breathlessly:
     "Just as I imagined you."
     "And  you, too, my dear!"  Gray said, lifting his wet treasure from the
water. "I've come at last. Do you recognize me?"
     She nodded, holding  onto  his  belt, trembling with a  reborn soul and
eyes shut quiveringly tight. Happiness was as a soft kitten curled up inside
of her. When Assol  decided to open her eyes the rocking of the rowboat, the
sparkle of the waves, the huge, approaching, moving side of  the Secret--all
was  a dream,  where the light and the water bobbed and spun like sun-sports
cavorting  on a  sunshine-streaked wall. She did not  remember  how she  was
carried up the gangplank in Gray's strong arms. The deck, covered and draped
with rugs,  engulfed by  the  crimson splashing  of the sails,  was  like  a
heavenly garden. And soon Assol saw that she was  in a cabin--in a room than
which nothing could be better.
     Then from above, rending and absorbing the heart in its triumphant cry,
once again the  thunderous music crashed.  Once  again  Assol shut her eyes,
fearful lest  all this disappear if she were to  look. Gray  took her  hands
and, knowing now where safety lay, she buried her tear-stained  face  on the
breast of her beloved, who had appeared  so miraculously. Gently, but with a
smile,  for  he,  too,  was  overwhelmed  and amazed by  the  coming  of the
inexpressible, precious minute,  inaccessible to anyone else, Gray tilted up
this face that had haunted him for so long, and the eyes of the girl finally
opened wide. All that was best in a person was in them.
     "Will you take my Longren with us?" she said.
     "Yes."  And he kissed  her so passionately after saying this firm "yes"
that she laughed delightedly.
     We shall leave them  now, knowing that  they should be alone. There are
many words in the many languages and dialects of the world, but none of them
can even faintly convey that which they said to each other that day.
     Meanwhile,  up on deck, by the mainmast  the  entire crew waited at the
worm-eaten cask with the top knocked off to reveal the hundred-year old dark
magnificence.  Atwood stood by; Panten sat as  primly blissful  as a newborn
babe. Gray  came up on  deck, signalled  to the orchestra and,  removing his
cap, was the first to dip a glass, to the accompaniment of the golden horns,
into the sacred wine.
     "There..." he said, when he  had  drunk and then tossed down his glass.
"Now drink. Everybody, drink! Anyone who doesn't drink is my enemy."
     He did not have  to repeat  his words. As the  Secret proceeded at full
speed,  under  full  sail,  away  from  Kaperna,  which had been struck dumb
forever,  the jostling  around the cask  was greater  than  anything in this
manner that occurs at great fetes.
     "How did you like it?" Gray asked Letika.
     "Captain," the sailor said,  searching  for the  right  words, "I don't
know  whether it  liked  me,  but I'll  have to think  over  my impressions.
Beehive and orchard!"
     "What?"
     "I mean it's like having a beehive and an orchard put into my mouth. Be
happy, Captain.  And  may she whom I will call 'the best cargo', the Secrefs
best prize, be happy, too!"
     When dawn broke the following  morning the  ship  was far from Kaperna.
Part of the crew were asleep where they had stretched out on  deck, overcome
by Gray's  wine; only the  helmsman, the  watch  and a thoughtful and  tipsy
Zimmer who sat  near the prow with his  chin resting on the  finger-board of
his cello were up. He sat there, drawing  his bow across the strings softly,
making them speak in a magic, heavenly voice, and was thinking of happiness.

              1920