"Do you think it well to take those things from your God?" whispered the girl.
"One," said the man, "is His story. In it He tells us of Himself."
"And do those things speak?" she asked, wonderingly.
Quietly as they had come, they descended to the chamber of entrance and made their way without. They separated in the shadow of the church, and this time Beekman did not offer to kiss her; but the maiden took no discomfort or grief from that. She understood. He pressed her hand in farewell, and the warm splendid vigor of his clasp she carried away with her. Indeed, she lifted the hand that he had grasped to her cheek. She laid her head upon that hand when she gained her hut, where she soon fell asleep to dream of him.
He had got the precious books. He was consumed with curiosity and interest, but there was no light by which he could read them. He would not dare to stand out in the moonlight, which was bright enough at least to enable him to identify the books. Someone might see him. He must wait until the morning. He hid the books in a heap of dry fern and rushes that made his bed, and lay awake for a long time longing for the day.
The next morning so soon as day broke he turned to his treasure trove. He could do this without fear, since one of the customs of the island, which had never been broken save the first time that he had been summoned from slumber, was an inviolable respect for the dwelling places of the islanders. None entered another’s hut unbidden. The curtain dropped before the door was a sign that the dweller would be alone, and it was as strong a barrier to alien entrance as the taboo about the temple. Was the instinctive protection of privacy a heritage of the past, too?
The larger, more bulky book was, as he had suspected. an ancient Bible printed in old Dutch which he could make shift to read largely because what he was reading was more or less familiar to him. It was leather-bound, brass-clasped, and, though it was mildewed and decayed, the stout paper and the honest ink and the clear type had resisted the ravages of time in a way that would not be possible even in the best bound and printed of modern books.
He laid the Bible reverently aside after quick examination and turned to the other volume. This also was leather-bound, its pages written over in the same old-fashioned Dutch. It was much harder to read, but a glance told him what it was. It was a ship’s log book. There were weather records, observations, nautical comments, and remarks; he glanced at these and then fell to the story. In it he knew would be found the solution of the mystery of the presence of Truda and all the rest on the island.