“She had a dreadful fit of raving this morning, and we had to tie her down in bed.  She is quieter now, poor dear.  There, listen!”

At that moment, through the open window of the bedroom, they heard a sweet though untrained voice beginning to sing.  It was Angela’s, and she was singing snatches of an old-fashioned sailor-song, one of several which Arthur had taught her: 

     “Fare ye well, and adieu to all you Spanish ladies,
      Fare ye well, and adieu to ye, ladies of Spain,
      For we’ve received orders to return to Old England,
      But we hope in a short time to see you again.

* * *

     “We hove our ship to with the wind at sou’west, my boys;
      We hove our ship to for to strike soundings clear;
      It was forty-five fathom and a grey sandy bottom;
      Then we filled our main topsail, and up channel did steer.

* * *

     “The signal was made for the grand fleet to anchor,
      All in the Downs that night for to meet;
      So cast off your shank-painter, let go your cat’s-topper,
      Hawl up your clew-garnets, let fly tack and sheet.”

Without waiting to hear any more, they went up the stairs and entered the bedroom.  The first person they saw was Pigott, who had been sent for to nurse Angela, standing by the side of the bed, and a trained nurse at a little table at the foot mixing some medicine.  On the bed itself lay Angela, shorn of all her beautiful hair, her face flushed as with fever, except where a blue weal bore witness to the blow from her husband’s cruel whip, her head thrown back, and a strange light in her wild eyes.  She was tied down in the bed, with a broad horse-girth stretched across her breast, but she had wrenched one arm free, and with it was beating time to her song on the bed-clothes.  She caught sight of Mr. Fraser at once, and seemed to recognize him, for she stopped her singing and laughed.

“That’s a pretty old song, isn’t it?” she said.  “Somebody taught it me —­who was it?  Somebody—­a long while ago.  But I know another—­I know another.  You’ll like it; you are a clergyman, you know.”  And she began again: 

“Says the parson one day as I cursed a Jew,
Now do you not know that that is a sin? 
Of you sailors I fear there are but a few
That St. Peter to heaven will ever let in.

“Says I, Mr. Parson, to tell you my mind,
Few sailors to knock were ever yet seen;
Those who travel by land may steer against wind
But we shape a course for Fiddler’s Green.”

Suddenly she stopped, and her mind wandered off to the scene of two days previous with Arthur by the lake, and she began to quote the words wrung from the bitterness of his heart.

“’You miserable woman, do you know what you are?  Shame upon you!  Were you not married yesterday?’ It is quite true, Arthur—­oh, yes, quite true!  Say what you like of me, Arthur—­I deserve it all; but oh!  Arthur, I love you so.  Don’t be hard upon me—­I love you so, dear!  Kill me if you like, dear, but don’t talk to me so.  I shall go mad—­I shall go mad!” and she broke into a flood of weeping.