At the opening of the van doors and the emergence into the fresh air Ann Veronica’s doubt and depression gave place to the wildest exhilaration. I have never told you so, or Sydney, but I can sing—rather well. ’ ‘No, miss,’ cut in Kimble. ’ Gosse smiled and Melusine read triumph there. Wild is incapable of such baseness. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. The unequal battle went on. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart.
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