We had ample supplies for several days more, and thanks to the Pagan canoe, an abundance of fruit.
Besides, what cared I now for the green groves and bright shore?
Was not Yillah my shore and my grove?
my meadow, my mead, my soft shady vine, and my arbor?
Of all things desirable and delightful, the full- plumed sheaf, and my own right arm the band?
Enough: no shore for me yet.

One sweep of the helm, and our light prow headed round toward the vague land of song, sun, and vine: the fabled South.
As we glided along, strange Yillah gazed down in the sea, and would fain have had me plunge into it with her, to rove through its depths.
But I started dismayed; in fancy, I saw the stark body of the priest drifting by.

Again that phantom obtruded; again guilt laid his red hand on my soul.

But I laughed.

Was not Yillah my own?
by my arm rescued from ill?
To do her a good, I had periled myself.