Melannie, in her new-found freedom, was like a happy child.
"Let us sail on for ever, Peter," she said. "I never want to put my
foot on land again."
I tried to tell her that we could not live long upon the ocean; that
our food and water would fail us; and that unless we fell in with a
ship, or landed upon some friendly island, our doom was sealed. But
Melannie refused to look upon the graver side of our situation, and
seemed so happy and contented that I did not like to spoil her
enjoyment with my dismal forebodings. Time enough, I thought, to meet
trouble when it comes. Meanwhile we continued our voyage as a pleasure
trip, eating the fruit we had brought with us when we felt hungry, and
quenching our thirst from the boat's water-tank, with no care for the
future.
During this time Van Luck resumed his former air of abstraction, which
I had noticed in him on board the "Arms of Amsterdam". For hours at a
time he would remain silent, looking across the sea with his hand
shading his eyes in the watchful attitude which had become habitual to
him during his solitary vigils at the island upon which we had found
him. If spoken to when this fit was upon him, he would not answer, nor
did he, at such times, appear to realize where he was.
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