The old skipper, Pierre, had begun to call out his orders.

Josephine took her hands from her face suddenly, and looked towards the busy men with such eager hungry desire for the freedom they were preparing for her that it seemed to Caius that at that moment his own heart broke, for he saw that Josephine was not convinced but that she had yielded.

He knew that Mammy's presence on the journey made no real difference in its guilt from Josephine's standpoint; her duty to her God was to remain at her post.

She had flinched from it out of mere cowardice--it was a fall.
Caius knew that he had no choice but to help her back to her better self, that he would be a bastard if he did not do it.
Three times he essayed to speak; he had not the right words; then, even without them, he broke the silence hurriedly: "I think you are justified in coming with me; but if you do what you believe to be wrong--you will regret it.

What does your heart say?
Think!" It was a feeble, stammered protest; he felt no dignity in it; he almost felt it to be the craven insult seen in it by O'Shea, who swore under his breath and glared at him.
Josephine gave only a long sobbing sigh, as one awakening from a dream.
She looked at the boat again, and the men preparing it, and then at Caius--straight in his eyes she looked, as if searching his face for something more.
"Follow your own conscience, Josephine; it is truer than ours.