“It’s not Diccon,” replied the figure, setting down a pitcher. “It is Jeremy Sparrow. Thank God, you are yourself again!”

“Where are we?” I asked, when I had lain and listened to the water a little longer.

“In the hold of the George,” he answered. “The ship sank by the bows, and well-nigh all were drowned. But when they upon the George saw that there was a woman amongst us who clung to the poop deck, they sent their longboat to take us off.”

The light was too dim for me to read his face, so I touched his arm.

“She was saved,” he said. “She is safe now. There are gentlewomen aboard, and she is in their care.”