She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. Melusine ran up the stairway after him, her point flailing to frighten him into allowing her access to the chapel. Here they were regaled with another plentiful meal by the hospitable carpenter, who personally superintended the repast.
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