In this they embarked unobserved, for the multitude, and even Peter's own squires believed that he had returned with his wife to the palace, as he had given out that he would do.

So they were rowed to the _Margaret_, which straightway made as though she were about to sail, and indeed dropped a little way down stream.

Here she anchored again, just round a bend of the river, and lay there for the night.
It was a heavy night, and in it there was no place for love or lovers' tenderness.

How could there be between these two, who for so long had been tormented by doubts and fears, and on this day had endured such extremity of terror and such agony of joy?
Peter's wound also was deep and wide, though his shield had broken the weight of Morella's sword, and its edge had caught upon his shoulder-piece, so that by good chance it had not reached down to the arteries, or shorn into the bone; yet he had lost much blood, and Smith, the captain, who was a better surgeon than might have been guessed from his thick hands, found it needful to wash out the cut with spirit that gave much pain, and to stitch it up with silk.

Also Peter had great bruises on his arms and thighs, and his back was hurt by that fall from the white charger with Morella in his arms.
So it came about that most of that night he lay outworn, half-sleeping and half-waking, and when at sunrise he struggled from his berth, it was but to kneel by the side of Margaret and join her in her prayers that her father might be rescued from the hands of these cruel priests of Spain.
Now during the night Smith had brought his ship back with the tide, and laid her under the shelter of those hulks whereof Peter had spoken, having first painted out her name of _Margaret_, and in its place set that of the _Santa Maria_, a vessel of about the same build and tonnage, which, as they had heard, was expected in port.