She was greatly amused when Merefleet insisted upon doing his share of the work.
"I love to see you doing the galley-slave," she said.

"I know you hate it, you poor old Bear." But Merefleet did not hate his work.

He sat facing her throughout the afternoon, gazing to his heart's content on the perfect picture before him.

He wore his hands to blisters, and the sun beat mercilessly down upon him.

But he felt neither weariness nor impatience, neither regret nor surliness.
A magic touch had started the life in his veins; the revelation of a wandering searchlight had transformed his sordid world into a palace of delight.