Mother Pêche lived to do good deeds, and loved to think she did them from an ill motive. Her witchcraft, devoutly believed in by herself, and by a good half of Grand Pré as well, was never known to curse, but ever to bless; yet its white magic she called black art. There was no one sick, there was no one sorrowful, there was no child in all Grand Pré, but loved her; yet it was her whim to believe herself feared, and in hourly peril of anathema. Even Father Fafard, whom she affected to deride, but in truth vastly reverenced, found it hard to maintain a proper show of austerity toward this incomprehensible old woman.
The boat, soon loaded, went dragging through the flame-lit tide toward the ship. The old dame sat clutching Yvonne’s hand under the warm privacy of the cloak. Here was a weight off her mind. She loved Yvonne de Lamourie and Paul Grande better than any one else in the world; and with 230all her heart she believed that to hold them apart would mean ruin to others in the end, as well as to themselves. This which had now come about (she had trembled lest Yvonne should not prove quite strong enough at the last) seemed to her the best exit from a bad closure. Anderson she had ever regarded with hostile and unreasoning contempt; and now it suited her whim to tell herself that a part of her present satisfaction lay in the thought of him so ignominiously thwarted. But in very truth she believed that the thwarting was for his good; that he would recover from his hurt in time, and see himself well saved from the lifelong mordancy of a loveless marriage. In a word, what Mother Pêche wanted was the good of those she loved, and as little ill as might be to those she accounted enemies.
Though the boat was packed with intimates of hers, she was absorbed in studying so much of Yvonne’s face as could be seen through the half-drawn hood. “She is, indeed, much better already,” said the old dame to herself. “This was the one medicine.”
Yvonne, for her part, had no eyes but for the ship she was approaching. Eagerly she scanned the bulwarks. Women’s heads, and children’s, she saw in plenty; but no men, save the sailors and a few red-coats.
“Are none of the—are there no men on this 231ship?” she whispered to Mother Pêche, in a sudden awful doubt.
“But think, chérie,” muttered the old woman, “these men are dangerous. Would they be left on deck like women and children? But no, indeed. They are in the hold, surely; and in irons belike. But they are there—or on the other ship,” she added uneasily in her heart.
By this the boat was come to the ship-side. By some one’s carelessness it was not rightly fended, and was suffered to bump heavily. One gunwale dipped; an icy flood poured in; there was imminent peril of swamping.
Women jumped up with screams, and children caught at them, terror-stricken by the looming black wall of the ship’s side. The boatmen cursed fiercely. The two soldiers in the boat shouted: “Sit down! damn you! sit down!” with such authority that all obeyed at once. The shrill clamour ceased; the peril was over; the embarkation went on. Mother Pêche, with nerves of steel, had but gripped the more firmly upon Yvonne’s hand. As for Yvonne, she had apparently taken no note of the disturbance.
Driven by a consuming purpose, which had gathered new fuel from the picture of the fettered captives in the hold, Yvonne had no sooner reached the deck than she started off to find the 232captain. But Mother Pêche was at her elbow on the instant, clinging to her.
“I must see the captain at once!” exclaimed Yvonne, “and make some inquiry—find out something!”
“Yes, chérie,” whispered the old dame, with loving irony, “and get yourself recognized, and be taken back next boat to Monsieur George Anderson.”
The girl’s head drooped. She saw how near she had been to undoing herself through impatience. She submissively followed the red shawl to a retired place near the bow of the ship. There the two settled themselves into a warm nest of beds and blankets, wherefrom they could watch the end of the embarking. But what more engrossed their eyes was the end of Grand Pré; for by now the sea of fire was roaring over more than half the village, the whole world seemed awash with ruddy air, and the throbs of scorching heat, even at their distance and with the wind blowing from them, made them cover their faces from time to time and marvel if this could be a December night.
Fascinated by the monstrous roar, the mad red light, the rolling level canopy of cloud, the old woman sat a long time silent, her startling eyes very wide open, her hawk face set in rigid lines. But the lines softened, the eyes filmed suddenly, 233at a sound close beside her. Yvonne had buried her face in a coloured quilt, and was sobbing tempestuously.
“It is well! It had to come! It was just a pulling of herself up by the roots to leave her father and mother, poor heart!” thought the old woman to herself. Then after a few minutes, she said aloud:
“That is right, dear heart! Cry all you can. Cry it all out. You have held it back too long.”
“Oh, how could I leave them so? How could I be so cruel?” moaned the girl, catching her breath at every word or two. “They will die of sorrow, I know they will!”
“No, chérie, they will not die of sorrow,” said the old dame softly. “They will grieve; but they have each other. And they will see you again; and they will know you are safe, with your—husband,” she finished slowly.
Yvonne was silent at the word; but it was not repeated, though she listened for it.
“But how will they know I am safe?” she asked.
“Because,” said the old woman, rising nimbly to her feet, “the sailors are getting up the anchor now, and there is the last boat returning to the land. I go to send word by them, saying where you are. It is too late for any one to follow you now.”
234She went to the side of the ship, and called to the boat as it rowed away:
“Will you have the goodness, gentlemen, to send word to Monsieur de Lamourie that his daughter is safe and well, and that she has of her own choice gone into exile for a reason which he will understand; but that she will come back, with love, when things are something changed?”
The boat stopped, and the soldiers listened with astonishment to this strange message. There was a moment of indecision, and she trembled lest the boat should put back. But there was no one aboard with authority to thwart the will of Mademoiselle de Lamourie, so a doubtful voice cried:
“The message shall be delivered.”
The oars dipped again, and the boat ran swiftly toward the landing; and the ship sped smoothly out with the tide.
The hawk face in the red shawl hurried back to Yvonne. The girl, sorely overwrought, had once more buried her head in the quilt, that she might the more unrestrainedly give way to her tears. Though she had no least dream of going back, nevertheless the sending of the message, and the realization that the ship was actually under way, had overwhelmed her. Moreover, it had been for weeks that she had endured the great strain dry-eyed, her breast anguished for the relief of tears. Now that the relief had come, however, it threatened 235to grow excessive, too exhausting in its violence. Mother Pêche sat beside her, watching for a while in silence. Then she seemed to think the passionate outburst should be checked. But she was far too wise to say so.
“That’s right, dearie,” murmured the subtle old dame at the girl’s ear. “Just cry as hard as you like, if it does you good. There’s so many women crying on this ship, poor souls, that you’re no ways noticeable.”
So many women crying! True, they had not the same to cry about that she had, but Yvonne felt that her grief was suddenly cheapened. She must try to be less weak than those others. With an obstinate effort she strangled her sobs. Her shoulders heaved convulsively for a minute or two, and then, with a strong shudder, she sat up, throwing back her deep hair and resolutely dashing the tears from her eyes.
“What a fool I am, mother!” she cried. “Here am I, where, after weeks of dreadful thinking, I deliberately made up my mind to be. And I do not repent my decision—no, not for one instant. It had to be. Yet—why, I’m acting just like a baby! But now I’m done with tears, mother. You shall see that I am strong enough for what I’ve undertaken.”
“Of course you are, dear heart!” said the old woman softly. “The bravest of us women must 236have our cry once in a while, or something is sure to go wrong inside of us.”
“And now hadn’t I better find the captain, and ask who’s on board?” cried Yvonne, springing lightly to her feet, and no longer troubling to keep the hood about her face.
“But no, chérie!” urged the old woman. “Don’t you see how every one is still busy, and shouting, and cursing, and unpleasant? This is not the time. Wait just a little. And tell me, now, how you got away.”
Yvonne sat down again, and told the whole story, vividly, with light in her eyes, and with those revealing gestures of her small hands. The old woman’s face darkened at the tale of the spy.
“And so you see, mother,” she concluded, “I feel very confident that he is in this ship—for the man could have no reason to lie to me about it. I am sure from his face that he is the kind of man to do nothing without a reason.”
“Tell me what he looked like, chérie!” said the old woman, the whites of her eyes flashing nervously.
Yvonne described him—she made him stand there on the deck before them. Mother Pêche knew that picture well. Le F?ret was one of the few living creatures she feared. She rose to her feet, and involuntarily cast an eager look in the direction of the other ship, whose sails, a league away, shone scarlet in that disastrous light.
237“What is the matter?” asked Yvonne, in swift alarm.
“My old legs need stretching. I was too long still,” said Mother Pêche.
“No, you are troubled at something. Tell me at once,” cried Yvonne, rising also, and letting her cloak drop.
“Yes, chérie, yes!” answered the old woman, much agitated, and not daring to deceive her. “I am much troubled. That was Le F?ret, Vaurin’s man, whom Captain Grande knocked down that day at the forge. He would do anything. He would lie even to you!”
Yvonne grew pale to the lips.
“Then you think Paul is not”—she began, in a strained voice.
“I think he may not be in this ship,” interrupted Mother Pêche hurriedly. “But I’ll go right now and find out. Wait here for me.” And she went off briskly, poking through the confusion with her staff.
She knew men, this old dame; and she quickly found out what she wanted to find out. Trembling with apprehension, she came back to Yvonne—and went straight to the point.
“No, no, dear heart!” she began. “He is not here. He is on the other ship yonder. I have a plan, though”—
But there was no use going on; for Yvonne had dropped in a faint.
Mother Pêche was not alarmed, but, like the shrewd strategist she was, made haste to turn the evil to good account. She summoned a soldier—by excellent chance that same boyish-faced, tall fellow who had so patly aided at the embarking; and he with the best will in the world and a fluttering in his breast carried Yvonne straight to the captain’s cabin, where he laid her upon the berth. Then, at Mother Pêche’s request, he went to beg the captain’s presence for an instant in his cabin.
The ship was now well under way, directed by a pilot who knew the shoals and bars of Minas. The business of stowing baggage was in the hands of petty officers. The captain could be spared for a little; and without doubt the soldier’s manner proclaimed more clearly than words that here was no affair of a weeping peasant. To such the captain would just now have turned a deaf ear, for he had all day been striving to harden his heart against the 239sight of sorrows which he could not mitigate. He was an iron-grey, close-bearded man, this New England captain, with a stern mouth and half-shut, twinkling eyes. Rough toward men, he was gentle toward women, children, and animals. His name was John Stayner; and in Machias, Maine, whence he hailed, he had a motherless daughter of eighteen, the core of his heart, who was commonly said to rule him as the moon rules ocean. When John Stayner went to the cabin and saw Yvonne in his berth, her white eyelids just stirring to the first return of consciousness, there was small need of Mother Pêche’s explanations. The girl’s astonishing loveliness, her gentle breeding, the plain signals of her distress, all moved him beyond his wont. He straightway saw his own dark-haired Essie in like case—and forthwith, stirred by that fine chivalry which only a strong man far past youth can know, he was on Yvonne’s side, though all the world should be against her.
As if their low voices were remote and speaking in a tongue but half understood, Yvonne heard them talking of her—the old woman explaining swiftly, concisely, directly; the New Englander speaking but now and then a word of comprehension. His warmth reached Yvonne’s heart. She opened her great eyes wide, and looked up into the man’s face with a trustful content.
His own eyes filled in response. To him it was 240much the look of his Essie. He touched her hand with his rough fingers, and said hastily, “This cabin is yours, Miss—Mademoiselle de Lamourie, I mean, so long as you are on this ship. Good-night. I have much to do. Take care of her,” he added, with a sudden tone of authority, turning to Mother Pêche. “To-morrow, when we are clear of these shoals and eddies, we’ll see what can be done.”
And before Yvonne could control her voice or wits to thank him, he was away.
She turned shining eyes upon the old woman.
“What makes him so kind?” she murmured, still half bewildered. “And what will he do?”
“He is a good man,” said Mother Pêche, with decision. “I believe he will send us in a boat to the other ship, at the very first chance.”
Yvonne’s face grew radiant. She was silent with the thought for a few minutes. Then she glanced about the cabin.
“How did I come here?” she asked, raising herself on her elbow.
“This is the captain’s own cabin, chérie,” said the old woman, with triumph in her voice. “And a big, boy-faced red-coat carried you here, at my request, and looked as if he’d like to keep on carrying you forever.”
“I cannot sleep now, mother!” exclaimed the girl, slipping out of the berth and drawing the woollen cloak about her. “Let us go on deck 241awhile. Morning will come the more quickly so.”
“Yes, to be sure. And I would look a last look on Grand Pré, if only on the flames of its dear roofs,” agreed the old woman, obediently smothering a deep yawn. In truth, now that things bade fair to work her will, she wanted nothing so much as a good sleep. But whatever Yvonne wanted was the chief thing in her eyes. The two went on deck, and huddled themselves under the lee of the cabin, for there was a bitter wind blowing, and the ship was too far from Grand Pré now to feel the heat of the conflagration. The roaring of it, too, was at this distance diminished to a huge but soft sub-bass, upon which the creaking of cordage, the whistling of the wind, the slapping of the thin-crested waves, built up a sort of bitter, singing harmony which thrilled Yvonne’s ears. The whole village was now burning, a wide and terrifying arc of flame from the Gaspereau banks to the woodland lying toward Habitants. Above it towered the chapel, a fixed serenity amid destruction. It held Yvonne’s eyes for a while; but soon they turned away, to follow the lit sails of the other ship, now fleeting toward the foot of Blomidon. At last, with a shiver, she said to her sleepy companion:
“Come, mother, let us go back into the cabin and sleep, and dream what morning may bring to pass.”
242That of all which morning should bring to pass nothing might be missed, Yvonne was up and out on deck at the earliest biting daylight. She found the ship already well past Blomidon, the vale of desolation quite shut from view. To west and north the sky was clear, of a hard, steely pallor. The wind was light, but enough to control the dense smoke which still choked the greater half of the heavens. It lay banked, as it were, sluggishly and blackly revolving itself along the wooded ridge that runs southward from Blomidon. Straight ahead, across a wintry reach of sea, sped the other ship, with all sail set. It seemed to Yvonne’s eyes that she was much farther ahead than the night before, and sailing with a dreadful swiftness.
“Oh, we can never catch up!” she cried, pressing one hand to her side and throwing back her head with a half-despairing gesture.
Mother Pêche, who had just come on deck, looked troubled. “We do certainly seem to be no nearer,” she agreed reluctantly.
At this moment the captain came up, smiling kindly. He took Yvonne’s hand.
“I hope you have slept, mademoiselle, and are feeling better,” he said.
“Yes, monsieur, thanks to your great kindness,” answered Yvonne, trying to smile, “but is not the other ship getting very far ahead? She seems to sail much faster than we do.”
243“On the contrary, my dear young lady,” said John Stayner, “the ‘Good Hope’ is much the faster ship of the two. We shall overhaul them, with this breeze, one hour before noon.”
“Will we?” cried Yvonne, with other questions crowding into her eyes and voice.
The stern mouth smiled with understanding kindness.
“If we do not, I promise you I will signal them to wait,” said he. “I find three families on this ship whose men-folk are on the other. It was great carelessness on some one’s part. I will send them in the boat with you, mademoiselle,—and gather in as many blessings as I can out of this whole accursed business.”
“As long as I live, monsieur, there will be one woman at least ever blessing you and praying for your happiness.” And suddenly seizing his hand in both of hers Yvonne pressed it to her lips.
A look of boyish embarrassment came over his weather-beaten face.
“Don’t do that, child!” he stammered. Then, looking with a quizzical interest at the spot she had kissed, he went on: “This old hand is something rough and tarry for a woman’s lips. But do you know, now, I kind of think more of it, rough as it is, than I ever did before. If ever, child, you should want a friend in that country of ours you’re 244going to, remember that Captain John Stayner, of Machias, Maine, is at your call.”
To escape thanks he strode off abruptly, with a loud order on his lips.
Easy in her mind, Mother Pêche went back to capture a little more sleep, Yvonne’s restlessness having roused her too early. As for Yvonne, she never knew quite how that morning, up to the magical period of “one hour before noon,” managed to drag its unending minutes through. It is probable that she ate some pretence of a breakfast; but her memory, at least, retained no record of it. All she remembered was that she sat huddled in her cloak, or paced up and down the deck and talked of she knew not what to the kind Captain John Stayner, and watched the space of sea between the ships slowly—slowly—slowly diminish.
For diminish it did. That marvel, as it seemed to her, actually took place—as even the watched pot will boil at last, if the fire be kept burning. While it yet wanted more than an hour of noon, the two ships came near abreast; and at an imperative hail from the “Good Hope” her consort hove to. A boat was quickly lowered away. Four sailors took the oars. Two women surrounded by children of all sizes were swung down into it; then the gratefully ejaculating old mother of Petit Joliet, the tear-stains of a sleepless night still salty 245in the wrinkles of her smiles; then Mother Pêche, serene in the sense of an astonishing good fortune for those she loved; last of all, Yvonne—she went last, for self-discipline.
As Captain John Stayner moved to hand her over the side, she turned and looked him in the eyes. The words she wanted to say simply would not come—or she dared not trust her voice; but the radiance of her look he carried in his heart through after-years. A minute more, and the boat dropped astern; and Yvonne’s eyes were all for the other ship. But Mother Pêche looked back; and she saw, leaning hungrily over the taffrail of the “Good Hope,” the long form of the boy-faced soldier who had twice carried Yvonne in his fortunate arms.
When Yvonne stood at last upon the deck of the ship of her desire, her heart, without warning, began a far too vehement gratulation. Her cloak oppressed her. She dropped it, and stood leaning upon Mother Pêche’s shoulder. She grew suddenly pale, breathing with effort; and one hand caught at her side.
The apparition made a wondrous stir on deck. To those who had ever heard of such a being, it appeared that the Witch of the Moon, in all the indescribable magic of her beauty, had been translated into flesh. Men seemed upon the instant to find an errand to that quarter of the ship. Captain Eliphalet Wrye, who had been watching with great unconcern a transfer whose significance seemed to him quite ordinary, came forward in haste, eager to do the honours of his ship, and marvelling beyond measure at such a guest. Captain Eliphalet had traded much among the French of Acadie and New France. He knew well the difference 247between the seigneurial and the habitant classes; and this knowledge was just what he needed to make his bewilderment complete.
“Here’s the captain of the ship coming to see you, chérie!” whispered Mother Pêche, squeezing the girl’s arm significantly. Yvonne steadied herself with an effort, and turned a brilliant glance upon this important stranger. With his rough blue reefing-jacket, extremely broad shoulders, and excessively broad yellow-brown beard, Captain Eliphalet looked to her just as she thought a merchant-captain ought to look. She therefore approved of him, and awaited his approach with a smile that put him instantly at ease. As he came up, however, hat in hand and with considered phrases on his lips, the old woman forestalled him.
“Let me present you, Monsieur le Capitaine,” said she, stepping forward with a courtesy, “to my mistress, Mademoiselle de Lamourie, of Lamourie Place.”
“It is but ashes, alas! monsieur,” interrupted Yvonne, holding out her hand.
“The ship is yours, Mademoiselle de Lamourie!” he exclaimed, and bowed with a gesture of relinquishing everything to her command. It was not for nothing Captain Eliphalet had visited Montreal and Quebec.
Yvonne dropped her lids for a second, and shook her head rebukingly.
248“That is not English, monsieur,” she protested, “but it is very nice of you. I should not know what to do with a ship just now; but I like our little pleasant French fictions.”
Captain Eliphalet, however, could be French for a moment only.
“But you, mademoiselle, you—how comes such a one as you to be sailing away into exile?”
Yvonne’s long lashes drooped again, and this time did not rise so quickly.
“I have reason to think, monsieur,” she answered gravely, “that dear friends and kinsfolk of mine are on this ship, themselves going, fettered, into exile. I could not stay behind and let them go so. But enough of myself, monsieur, for the present,” she went on, speaking more rapidly. “I want to ease the anxieties of these poor souls who have come with me. Is there among your prisoners a young man known as ‘Petit Joliet’? Here is his mother come to look for him.”
Captain Eliphalet summoned a soldier who stood near, and put the question to him in English.
“There is one by the name of Franse Joliet on the roll, captain,” answered the red-coat, saluting.
“That’s he! That’s my boy!” cried his mother, catching the name. She had been waiting close by with a strained, fixed face, which now went to pieces in a medley of smiles and tears, like a reflection on still water suddenly broken. She 249clutched Yvonne’s hands, blessed and kissed them, and then rushed off vaguely as if to find Petit Joliet in durance behind some pile of ropes or water-butt.
“And Lenoir—Tamin Lenoir,” continued Yvonne, her voice thrilling with joy over her task, “and Michel Savarin. Are they, too, in the hold?”
“Yes, miss,” said the soldier, saluting again, and never taking his eyes from her face. She turned to the two women in their restless fringe of clingers; and they, more sober because more hampered in their delight, thanked her devoutly, and moved off to learn what more they could elsewhere.
Meanwhile another figure had drawn near—a figure not unknown to Yvonne’s eyes.
When she first appeared Lieutenant Shafto, the English officer in command of the guard, was pacing the quarter deck, stiffly remote and inexpressibly bored. He had two ambitions in life—the one, altogether laudable and ordinary, to be a good officer in the king’s service; the other, more distinguished and uncommon, to be quoted as an example of dress and manners to his fellow-men. In London he had achieved in this direction sufficient success to establish him steadfastly in his purpose. Ordered to Halifax with his regiment, he had there found the field for his talent 250sorely straitened. At Grand Pré, far worse: it was reduced to the dimensions of a back-door plot. Here on shipboard it seemed wholly to have vanished. Nevertheless, for practice, and for the preservation of a civil habit, he had clung to his niceties. Now, when he saw Yvonne, his first thought was to thank Heaven he had been as particular with his toilet that morning as if about to walk down Piccadilly.
He fitted his glass to his eye.
“Gad!” he said to himself, “it really is!”
He removed the glass, and giving it a more careful readjustment, stared again.
“Gad!” said he, “it is none other! A devilish fine girl! She couldn’t be beat in all London for looks or wits. What does it mean? Given that cad Anderson the slip, eh? Discriminating, begad!”
Lieutenant Shafto had a definite contempt for Anderson, as a man who sat by the fire when he might have been fighting. If a man fought well or dressed well, Shafto could respect him. Anderson did neither. He was therefore easily placed.
“There’s something rich behind this,” went on the lieutenant to himself. “But, gad! there is a savour to this voyage, after all. There’s a pair of bright eyes—devilish bright eyes—to dress for!”
He hitched his sword to a more gallant angle 251as he stepped primly down the deck. He gave the flow of his coat an airy curve. He would have felt of his queue had he dared, to assure himself it was dressed to a nicety. He glanced with complaisance at his correct and entirely spotless ruffles. And by this he was come to mademoiselle’s side, where he stood, bowing low, his cap held very precisely across his breast.
“The honour, mademoiselle! Ah, the marvel of it!” he murmured. “The ship is transfigured. I was but now anathematizing it as a most especial hell: I looked up, and it had become a paradise—a paradise of one fair spirit!”
Yvonne looked at him with searching eyes as he delivered this fantasia, then a trifle imperiously gave him her hand to kiss.
She had spoken passingly with him twice or thrice before, at Father Fafard’s. She understood him—read him through: a man absurd, but never contemptible; to be quite heartily disliked, yet wholly trusted; to be laughed at, yet discreetly; vain, indomitable, a fighter and a fop; living for the field and the hair-dresser. Here was a man whom she would use, yet respect him the while.
“You do nobly, monsieur,” she said, with a faint, enigmatic smile, “to thus keep the light of courtly custom burning clear, even in our darknesses.”
252“There can be no darkness where your face shines, mademoiselle,” he cried, delighted not less with himself than with her.
It was a little obvious, but she accepted it graciously with a look, and he went on:
“I beg that you will let me place my cabin at your disposal during the voyage. You will find it narrow, but roomy enough to accommodate you and your maid.”
Here Captain Eliphalet interfered.
“I claim the privilege, mademoiselle,” said he, with some vexation in his tones, “of giving you the captain’s cabin, which is by all odds the most commodious place on the ship—the only place at all suitable for you.”
“The captain is right,” said Shafto reluctantly. “His cabin is the more comfortable; and I beg him to share mine.”
In this way, then, the difficulty was settled, and Yvonne found herself in quarters of unwonted comfort for a West India trader, Captain Eliphalet being given to luxury beyond the most of his Puritan kin. She was contented with her accomplishment so far as it went; and having two gallant men to deal with she felt already secure of her empire. She read approbation, too, in those enigmatic eyes of Mother Pêche, with their whites ever glancing and gleaming. Moreover, as she sat down to luncheon, to the condiment of a bounding 253heart and so much appetite as might nourish a pee-wee bird, she had two points gained to elate her. First, in passing the open hatchway which, as Captain Eliphalet told her, led to the prisoners’ quarters, she had shaken lightly from her lips enough clear laughter to reach, as she guessed, those ears attuned to hear it; and second, she had the promises both of the broad-bearded captain and the beautifully barbered lieutenant, that her cousins, Monsieur de Mer and Monsieur Paul Grande, should be brought on deck to see her that very day.
“You should be very good to them, gentlemen,” she said demurely, picking with dubious fork at brown strips of toasted herring on her plate. “My cousin Marc especially. He is half English, you know. He has the most adorable English wife, from Boston, with red hair wherein he easily persuades himself that the sun rises and sets.”
“If you would have us love them for your sake, mademoiselle, love them not too much yourself,” laughed the broad-bearded Captain Eliphalet, in vast good-humour; but the admirable lieutenant murmured:
“There is no hair but black hair—black with somehow a glint in it when the sun strikes—so.”
And Mother Pêche, passing behind them and catching a flash from Yvonne’s eye, smiled many thoughts.
At this point it seems proper that I should once more speak in my own person; for at this point the story of my beloved once more converges to my own.
I was awakened out of a bitter dream by Marc’s lips moving at my ear in the stealthiest whisper. The first pallor of dawn was sifting down amongst us from the open hatch, opened for air. I nodded my head to signify I was awake and listening. There was a ringing gabble of small waves against the ship’s side, covering up all trivial sounds; and I knew we were tacking.
“Listen now, Paul,” said Marc’s obscure whisper, like a voice within my head. “We have made a beginning earlier than we planned, because the guards were sleepy, and the noise of these light waves favoured us. You knew, or guessed, we had a plan. That wily fox, La Mouche, brought a file with him in his boot. It was sent to him while he was in the chapel prison. Gr?l, 255none other, sent it to him inside a loaf of bread—and, faith, thereby came a broken tooth. Your Gr?l is wonderful, a deus ex machina every time. Well, we muffled the file in my shirt, and I scraped away, under cover of all this good noise, at the spring of La Mouche’s handcuffs, till it gave. Now he can slip them on and off in a twinkling; but to the eye of authority they are infrangible as ever. Oh, things are coming our way at last, for a change, my poor dejected! We will rise to-night, this very coming night, if all goes well; and the ship will be ours, for we are five to one.”
There was a thrill in his whisper, imperturbable Marc though he was. Under the long chafing of restraint his imperturbability had worn thin.
My own blood flowed with a sudden warmth at his words. Here was a near hope of freedom, and freedom would mean to me but one thing—a swift return to the neighbourhood where I might achieve to see Yvonne. I felt the strong medicine of this thought working health in every vein.
“But how to-night?” I whispered back, unwilling to be too soon sanguine. “It takes time to file fetters, n’est-ce pas?”
“Oh, but trust La Mouche!” replied Marc. “He understands those bracelets—as you, my cousin, in days you doubtless choose to forget, understood the more fragile, but scarce less fettering, 256ones affected by fair arms in Montreal, or Quebec, or even Trois Pistoles.”
I took it ill of my cousin to gall my sore at such a moment, but I strictly held my tongue; and after a vexing pause he went on:
“This wily La Mouche—with free hands and the knowing how, it is but a turn and a click, and the thing is off. It will be no mean weapon, too, when we’re ready to wield it.”
I stretched fiercely.
“Pray God it be to-night!” I muttered.
“S-sh-sh!” whispered Marc in my ear. “Not so loud, boy! Now, with this to dream on, go to sleep again. There’ll be something to keep us awake next night.”
“And when we’ve got the ship, what then?” I whispered, feeling no doubt of our success.
“We’ll run into the St. John mouth,” was the answer, “and then, leaving the women and children, with such men as will stay, at the Jemseg settlement, we will strike overland on snow-shoes for Quebec.”
“And I for Grand Pré,” said I doggedly.
I heard the ghost of a laugh flit from Marc’s lips.
“Good dog! Hold fast!” said he.
There was no gainsaying it. I was better. For perhaps an hour or two I slept like a baby, to awake deeply refreshed. A clear light came down 257the hatch, and there was a busy tramping of sailors overhead. It was high morning.
We were all awake, but silent. Sullen we might have seemed, and hopelessly submissive, but there was an alertness in the eyes flashing everywhere toward Marc and me, such as might have been warning to a folk less hardily indifferent than our captors. Two red-coated guards, taxed with the office of preventing conspiracy, paced up and down with their heads high and heeded us little. “What could these poor handcuffed wretches do, anyway?” was the palpable significance of their mien.
We desired indeed, at that time, to do nothing save eat the breakfast of weevilly biscuits just now served out to us, with good water still sweet from the wells of vanished Grand Pré. When one has hunger, there is rare relish in a weevilly biscuit; and I could have desired more of them than I got. With our fettered hands we ate like a colony of squirrels.
In the course of the morning it was not difficult, the guards being so heedless, to pass whispered word from one to another, so that soon all Marc’s plans were duly laid down. His was the devising and ordering head, while La Mouche, for all his subtlety, and long Philibert Trou, for all his craft, were but the wielded instruments. It was an unwonted part for me to be playing, this of blindly 258following another’s lead; but Marc had done well, seeing my heavy preoccupation, to make no great demand upon my wits. My arm, he knew, would be ready enough at need. I was not jealous. I wanted to fight the English; but I wanted to think—well, of just one thing on earth. Looking back now, I trust I would have been more useful to our cause that morning had not Marc’s capacity made wits of mine superfluous.
Throughout the morning we were all so quiet that the ship’s rats, lean and grey, came out and ate the few crumbs we had let drop. Nevertheless, ere an hour before noon every man knew the part he was to play in the venture of next night. Long Philibert and La Mouche, with two other Acadian woodsmen skilled in ambuscade, were to deal with the guard silently. Marc and I, with no stomach for aught but open warfare, were to lead the rush up through the hatchway, to an excellent chance of a bayonet through our gullets. I felt justified now, however, in considering as to whether I should be likely to find Yvonne still at Grand Pré, casting a ray of beauty on the ruins, or at Halifax, disturbing with her eyes the deliberations of the governor and his council.
I said—one hour before noon. About that time the speed of the ship sensibly slackened, and there seemed presently a confusion, an excitement of some sort upon deck. We heard hails and sharp 259orders. There was a sound as of people coming on board. And then, of a sudden, a strange trembling seized upon me. It was in every nerve and vein, and my heart shook merely, instead of beating. Such a feeling had come over me once before—when Yvonne’s eyes, turned upon me suddenly, seemed to say more than her lips would have permitted her to acknowledge. With a faint laugh at the very madness of it I could not but say to Marc:
“I think that is Yvonne coming!”
Whereupon he looked at me solicitously, as if he thought I was about to be taken with some sickness.
I bit my tongue for having said it.
Before many minutes, however, footsteps passed near the hatchway, and again the trembling took me. Then I caught a ripple of clear laughter—life has never afforded to my ears other melody so sweet as that laughter was, and is, and always will be. I sprang straight upon my feet, but instantly sat down again. Marc himself had heard it and was puzzled, for who that had ever heard the laughter of Yvonne de Lamourie could forget it?
“It—is she!” I said to him, in a thick voice.
It is marvel to us now how the next hours of suspense did pass. Yet pass they did, and in a joy that was fairly certitude; for I could not doubt the witness of my inmost soul. At length I saw that Marc believed also. His grave, dark face grew luminous as he said, after long balancing of the matter:
“Her eyes, my Paul, have opened at the last instant, and she has chosen exile with thee! Even so would Prudence have done. And seeing how thou, my comrade, lovest her, I am ready to believe she may be almost such another as Prudence. Wherefore she is here, quod erat demonstrandum!”
Even as he spoke, a soldier came down the ladder and stood before us.
“I am bidden to say,” said he, “that Mademoiselle de Lamourie desires to see Captain de Mer and Captain Grande on deck; and I am ordered by Lieutenant Shafto to fetch you at once.”
261With such haste as was possible—it is not easy when handcuffed to climb ladders—we made our way on deck, and straight came Yvonne running to meet us, both small hands outstretched. Her eyes sank into mine for just one heart-beat—and that look said, “I love you.” Then her guarded face grew maidenly impartial.
“My friends! My dear friends!” she cried; but stopped as if she had been struck. Our hands had not gone forth to meet hers. Her eyes fell upon our fetters. She turned slowly toward Captain Eliphalet and Lieutenant Shafto, who had followed close behind her. Flame gathered in her eyes, and a dark flush of indignation went over her face. She pointed at our handcuffs.
“This to my friends—in my presence!” she cried. “Of a truth your courtesy is tempered, gentlemen!”
With an angry exclamation Captain Eliphalet sprang forward to remove the offending irons; but the exquisite lieutenant was too quick for him. At a sign the guard who had brought us slipped them off, and stood holding them behind his back, while his officer was left free to make apologies.
These were abundant, and of such a tone as to leave no doubt of their sincerity. Moreover, by his manner, he included Marc and myself in his expressions of regret, which proved sound policy 262on his part, and went far to win his pardon from Yvonne.
“Believe me, mademoiselle,” he concluded, “it was never for one moment intended that these gentlemen, your friends, officers in the French army, and therefore, though my enemies, yet honoured members of my own profession, should thus obtrude upon your gentle eyes those chains, with which not their fault, but the chances of our profession have for a season embarrassed them.”
This was so apt and so elegant a conclusion that Captain Eliphalet felt himself urged to some great things, if he would not be quite eclipsed in his guest’s entrancing eyes.
“Indeed, mademoiselle,” he made haste to say, “as these gentlemen are your friends and kinsmen, and you have dared so splendidly for their sake, they may say good-by to the irons for the rest of the voyage, if they will but give their word of honour that they will in no way use their liberty to the detriment of my duties and responsibilities, nor to free any of the other prisoners.
He turned to us with a very hearty air. Yvonne looked radiant with satisfaction. Lieutenant Shafto’s face dropped—for he doubtless thought our continued freedom would much limit his privileges with Yvonne. But I spoke up at once, forestalling Marc.
“I need hardly assure you, Monsieur le Capitaine, 263that we do from our hearts appreciate your most generous courtesy. But beyond the few hours of freedom which we dare hope you may grant us each day, for the priceless solace of our fair kinswoman’s company, we cannot in conscience accept a favour that would too enviably distinguish us from our fellows.”
Captain Eliphalet looked unaffectedly astonished. Yvonne looked hurt and disappointed for a moment; then her face changed, and I saw that her swift brain was drawing intricate inferences from this strange rejection of parole—to which Marc had assented in a word. As for the elegant Mr. Shafto, however, he was frankly delighted.
“Right soldierly said, gentlemen!” he exclaimed. “A good officer stands by his men. I am honoured in meeting you!” and with a very precise civility he shook hands with us in turn.
“But it is very cold here, is it not?” cried Yvonne, with a little shiver, pulling her cloak close. “Let me invite you all to my cabin.”
This invitation she gave with a flying radiance of look at Captain Eliphalet, wherewith he stood a millionfold rewarded.
In the cabin I was not greatly astonished, though more than greatly pleased, to find Mother Pêche. The undisguised triumph in her eyes said, “Didn’t I tell you?”—and in involuntary response to the challenge I thrust my hand into my breast and felt 264the little deerskin pouch containing the tress of hair and the mystic stone. She smiled at the gesture.
I pressed the dear old witch’s hand, and said in a low voice:
“In all my life to come I cannot thank you enough. But isn’t it wonderful? I’m in fear each moment of waking, and to find it a dream.”
“She is a dream, Master Paul!” said the old dame. “And see how all men dream when they look upon her!”
With a jealous pang I realized the truth of what she said; and thereupon I made haste to Yvonne’s side, where I saw Marc, Shafto, and Captain Eliphalet all hanging devoutly upon her words. I was but a dull addition to the sprightly circle, for I was wondering how I should manage to get a word with her.
Had I but known her better I need not have wondered. Presently she broke off in the midst of a sparkling tirade, laid her hand upon my arm, and said:
“Will you pardon me, gentlemen, but I have a brief word awaiting the ear of Captain Grande,” and calmly she walked me off to the cabin door.
“I presumed, perhaps too hastily, that you still wanted me, dear,” was what she said.
I dared not look straight at her, for I knew that if I did so my face would be a flaunting proclamation 265of my worship. I could but say, in a voice that strove for steadiness:
“Beloved, beloved! have you done all this for me?”
A happy mirth came into her voice as she answered:
“No, Paul, not quite all for you! I had to think a little of a certain good man, madly bent on marrying a woman who would, alas! (I know it too well) have made him a most unpleasant wife. George Anderson will never know what I saved him from. But you may, Paul! Aren’t you a little bit afraid?”
I am well aware that in this supreme moment I betrayed no originality whatever. I could only repeat myself, in expressions which I need not set down. Trite as they were, however, she forgave them.
“We have so much to talk about, dear,” she said, “but not now. We must go back to the others; and I must take your cousin Marc aside as I have done with you, so that this won’t look too strange. Does he like me—approve of me?” she asked anxiously.
“Second only to his little Puritan he loves you,” said I. “He knows everything.”
Then, just as we turned back to the others, I whispered in her ear:
“Be prepared for events to-night!”
266She gave me a startled look, understanding at once. Then indeed, as now, whatever is in my mind she is apt to read as if it were an open book.
“So soon? Oh, be careful for my sake!”
I could give no answer, for by this, the cabin being small, we were quite returned from our privacy.
For perhaps two hours Yvonne entertained us, not only conversing herself with a gracious wit that struck but to illumine, never to wound, but calling forth a responsive alertness in her cavaliers. Captain Eliphalet began to wonder at his own readiness of repartee and compliment. Lieutenant Shafto forgot the perfect propriety of his ruffles, engrossed for once in another than himself. Even my imperturbable Marc yielded in some measure to the resistless bewilderment, and played the gallant with a quaint, fatherly air that pleasured me. I, only, was the silent one. I could but listen, intoxicated, speaking when I could not escape it, and my ears averse to all words but those coming from her lips.
By and by—I was vexed that his discretion should bring the moment so soon—Marc made his adieux, insisting against much protest that he desired to keep his welcome unworn for the morrow. I could do naught save follow his example; but as I withdrew, Yvonne’s eyes held me so that 267my feet in going moved like lead. The broad-bearded captain and the impeccable lieutenant most civilly accompanied us to the door of our prison.
“This situation, gentlemen,” said Marc, with a smile of careless amusement, “which your courtesy does so sweeten for us, is certainly not without the relish of strangeness.”
“It shall be made as little strange as lies in our power to make it, sir,” replied Captain Eliphalet heartily; and we parted with all expressions of esteem; not till their backs were turned upon us did we extend our wrists for the irons, which the discreet guard had kept hidden under the flap of his great-coat.
That night the weather fell thick, and, the wind freshening suddenly, the ship dropped anchor. Captain Eliphalet Wrye was not so familiar with the reefs and tides of Fundy that he cared to navigate her waters in the dark. This we considered very favourable to our enterprise; for the tide running strongly, and the wind against it, kicked up a pother that made the hold re?cho.
The time agreed upon was toward three, when those asleep are heaviest. I think that most of our men slept, but with that consciousness of events impending which would bring them wide awake on the instant. Marc, I know, lay sleeping like a child. But for me no sleep, no sleep indeed. I could not spare a minute from the delight of thinking and dreaming. Here I lay in irons, a captive, an exile,—but my beloved had come.
“She has come, my beloved!” I kept saying over and over to myself.
269Then I tried planning for our future; but the morrow promised her presence, and for the time I could not get my thoughts past that. There was no need to discount future joy by drawing bills of dear anticipation. But it was tonic to my brain to look back upon the hopeless despair in which I had lain weltering so few hours before. Now they seemed years away—and how I blessed their remoteness, those sick hours of anguish! Yes, though I had not given up my purpose, I had surely given up the hope that kept it alive. Then Mother Pêche’s soothsaying over the lines of my palm came back to me: “Your heart’s desire is nigh your death of hope!”
Wonderful old woman! How came such wisdom to your simple heart, with no teachers but herbs, and dews, and stillnesses of the open marsh, and hill-whispers, and the unknown stars? Out of some deep truth you spoke, surely; for even as my hope died, had not my heart’s desire come? And I said to myself, “It is but a narrow and shallow heart that expects to understand all it believes. Do we not walk as men blindfolded in the citadel of mystery? What seem to us the large things and unquestionable may, the half of them, be vain—and small, derided things an uninterpreted message of truth!”
My revery was broken by Marc laying free hands upon mine.
270“Are you awake?” he whispered. “The time has come. See! This is the way to open them.” And very easily, as it seemed, he slipped the iron from my wrists.
“Feel!” he went on, in the same soft whisper. I followed his fingers in the dimness. There was no light but the murk of a smoky lanthorn some way off, where the guards sat dejectedly smoking,—and I caught the method of unlocking the spring. “Free your next neighbour, and pass the word along,” continued Marc; and I did so. It was all managed with noiseless precision.
In a very few minutes—which seemed an hour—there was a sneeze from the furthermost corner of the hold, beyond the place where the guards sat. It was not the most natural and easy sneeze in the world, but it served. It was answered by another from the opposite corner. The shrill, silly sound was yet in the air when the ominous form of long Philibert Trou loomed high behind the sitting guards and fell upon one of them like fate; while at the same moment, like a springing cat, the lithe figure of La Mouche shot up at the other’s throat.
For such skilled hands it was but a moment’s work, and no noise about it. Like the rising of an army of spectres, every man came silently to his feet. Seizing the musket of the nearest guard, where he lay motionless, I glided to the hatch, 271just far enough ahead of Marc to get my foot first on the ladder.
As I reached the deck the sentry, not three paces distant, was just turning. With a yell to warn his comrades he sprang at me. Nimbly I avoided his bayonet thrust, and the butt of my musket brought him down. I had reserved my fire for the possibility of a more dangerous encounter.
There were shouts along the deck—and shots—and I saw sailors running up, and then more soldiers—and I sprang to meet them. But already Marc was at my side, and a dozen, nay, a score, of my fellow-captives. In a breath, as it were, the score doubled and trebled—the hold seemed to spout them forth, so hotly they came.
There were but few shots, and a fall or two with groans. The thing was over before it was well begun, so perfect had been the surprise. We had all who were on deck in irons, save for three slain and one grievously wounded. Those who had been asleep in their bunks when the alarm was given now promptly gave themselves up, soldiers and sailors alike, being not mad enough to play out a lost game. Handcuffs were abundant, which made our work the simpler.
As I went forward, wondering where Shafto was this while, I was met by La Mouche and two others leading a prisoner. It was Captain Eliphalet, with 272blood on his face, sorely dazed, but undaunted. Indignation and reproach so struggled within him that he could not for the moment find speech.
“Pardon, I beseech you, Captain Wrye,” I made haste to say, “the need which has compelled me to make such rude return for your courtesy. This,” and I tapped his irons with my finger, “is but for an hour or two at most, till we get things on our ship fitly ordered. Then, believe me, you will find that this is merely a somewhat abrupt reversal of the positions of host and guest.”
I fear that Captain Eliphalet’s reply was going to be a rude one, but if so it was quenched at his lips. The door of the cabin opened, a bright light streamed forth, and down it glided Yvonne in her white gown, the black lace over her head.
“Oh, Paul, what has happened? Are you—are you safe?” she asked breathlessly, ‘twixt laughing and tears. The shooting and shouting had aroused her roughly.
“Quite safe, my dearest,” I whispered. “And—the ship is ours.”
All that this meant flashed upon her, and her face flushed, her eyes dilated. But before she found voice to welcome the great news, her glance fell upon Captain Eliphalet’s blood-stained countenance, and her joy faded into compassion.
“Oh!” she cried, “you are not wounded, 273surely, surely!” And she pressed her handkerchief pitifully to the blood-spots.
“It is nothing, nothing, mademoiselle, but a mere scratch, or bruise, rather,” stammered Captain Eliphalet. Then she saw that his hands were fettered.
“Paul!” she exclaimed, turning upon me a face grown very white and grave. “And he was so kind to me! How could you!”
“As a matter of fact, I didn’t, Yvonne,” said I. “But this is what I am going to do.”
Slipping off the irons I tossed them into the sea.
“Captain Wrye,” said I to him, with a bow, “I have much yet to do, and I must not stay here any longer. May I commit to your charge for a little while what is more precious than all else?”
Yvonne thanked me with a look, and laid her hand on the captain’s arm.
“We will dress your wound, monsieur,” said she. “Mother Pêche has a wondrous skill in such matters.” And she led the captain away.
By this Marc was come up, with a squad of his men fully armed. Some half score approached the second cabin. A window opened, a thin stream of fire flashed out, with a sharp report of a pistol; and a man fell, shot through the head. Another report, with the red streak in the front of it, and a tall Acadian threw up his arms, screamed chokingly, and dropped across a coil of rope.
274The precise Lieutenant Shafto had awakened to the state of affairs.
“Down with the door, men, before he can load again!” shouted Marc, springing forward; and long Philibert picked up a light spar which lay at hand, very well suited to the purpose.
But there was no need of it. The door was thrown open, and in the light from Yvonne’s cabin was revealed the form of the English officer. He stood in his doorway, very angry and scornful, the point of his sword thrust passionately against the deck in front of him. A fine and a brave figure he was, as he stood there in his stockings, breeches, and fairly be-ruffled shirt—for he had not just now taken time to perfect his toilet with the customary care. In this attitude he paused for a second, lightly springing his sword, and scowling upon us.
“I must ask you to surrender, monsieur,” said Marc, advancing. “The ship is in our hands. I shall be glad to accept your parole.”
“I will not surrender!” he answered curtly. “If there be a gentleman among you who can use a sword, I am willing to fight him. If not, I will see how many more of this rabble I can take with me.” And he jerked his head toward the two whom he had shot down.
“I will cross swords with you,” I cried, getting ahead of Marc, “and will count myself much 275honoured in meeting so brave a gentleman. But you English took my sword from me, and up to the present have neglected to give it back.”
“I have swords, of course, monsieur,” he replied, his face lighting with satisfaction as he stepped back into his cabin to get them.
But some one else was not satisfied. Yvonne’s hands were on my arm—her eyes, wide with terror, imploring mine. “Don’t! It will kill me, dear! Oh, what madness! Have you no pity for me!” she gasped.
I looked at her reassuringly, not liking to say there was no danger, lest I should seem to boast; and so instant was her reading of my thought that even as I looked the fear died out of her face.
“It is nothing, dear heart. Ask Marc,” I whispered. She turned to him with the question in her eyes.
“Paul is the best sword in New France,” said Marc quietly, “not even excepting my father, the Sieur de Briart.”
Now so quickly was the confidence of my own heart transferred into the heart of my beloved that she was no more afraid. Indeed, what she said was:
“You must not hurt him, Paul! He has been very nice to me!” and this in a voice so clear that Shafto himself heard it as he came out with the swords. It ruffled him, but he bowed low to her in acknowledgment of her interest.
276“They are of the same length. Choose, monsieur!” said he, holding them out to me.
I took the nearest—and knew as soon as the hilt was in my hand that it was an honest weapon, of English make, something slow in action and lacking subtlety of response, but adequate to the present enterprise. Lanthorns were brought, and so disposed by Marc’s orders that the light should fall fairly for one as for the other. The Englishman had regained his good temper,—or a civil semblance of it,—and marked the preparations with approval.
“You have had abundant experience, I perceive, in the arbitrament of gentlemen,” said he.
“My cousin has, in particular, monsieur,” replied Marc dryly. Whereupon Mr. Shafto turned upon me a scrutiny of unaffected interest.
A moment more, and the swords set up that thin and venomous whispering of theirs. Now, what I am not going to do, even to please Yvonne, is—undertake to describe that combat. She wishes it, because under my instruction she has learned to fence very cunningly herself. But to me the affair was unpleasant, because I saw from the first a brave gentleman, and a good enough swordsman as these English go, hopelessly overmatched. I would not do him the discredit of seeming to play with him. He fenced very hotly, too. He wanted blood, being bitter and humiliated. After a few 277minutes of quick play I thought it best to prick him a little sharply in the arm. The blood spurted scarlet over his white sleeve; and I sprang back, dropping my point.
“Are you satisfied, monsieur?” I asked.
“No, never! Guard yourself, sir!” he cried angrily, taking two quick steps after me.
During the next two minutes or so he was so impetuous as to keep me quite occupied; and I was about concluding to disarm him, when there came a strange intervention. It was most irregular; but the wisest of women seem to have small regard for points of stringency in masculine etiquette. At a most knowingly calculated moment there descended between us, entangling and diverting the points of our weapons,—what but a flutter of black lace!
“I will not have either of you defeated!” came Yvonne’s voice, gayly imperious. “You shall both of you surrender at once, to me! There is no dishonour, gentlemen, in surrendering to a woman!”
It was a most gracious thought on her part, to save a brave man from humiliation; and my worship of her deepened, if that were possible. As for the elegant Mr. Shafto, he was palpably taken aback, and glowered rudely for a space of some seconds. Then he came to himself and accepted the diversion with good grace. With a very low bow he presented his sword-hilt to Yvonne, saying:
278“To you, and to you only, I yield myself a prisoner, Mademoiselle de Lamourie,”
Yvonne took the sword, examined it with gay concern on this side and on that, tried it against the deck as she had seen him do, and then, without so much as a glance at Marc or me for permission, gravely returned it to him.
“Keep it, monsieur,” she said. “I have no use for it at present; and I trust to hold my prisoners whether they be armed or defenceless.”
“That you will, mademoiselle, I’ll wager,” spoke up Captain Eliphalet, just behind.