For a while there was silence. Then she spoke again in a low whisper; her voice now sounded hard and cold, and she stood rigid.

"Who is the man?" she asked. Then she broke into a sudden pa.s.sion, and, forgetting caution, seized me by the arm, whispering, "Have you your sword?"

"Aye, it is here."

"Will you use it for me?"

"At your bidding."

"Then use it on the body of the man."

"I'm the man," said I.

"You, Simon!"

Now what a poor thing is this writing, and how small a fragment of truth can it hold! "You, Simon!" The words are nothing, but they came from her lips full-charged with wonder, most incredulous, yet coloured with sudden hope of deliverance. She doubted, yet she caught at the strange chance. Nay, there was more still, but what I could not tell; for her eyes lit up with a sudden sparkle, which shone a brief moment and then was screened by drooping lids.

"That is why I go," said I. "With M. de Perrencourt's favour and such a lady for my wife I might climb high. So whispered M. de Perrencourt himself."

"You!" she murmured again; and again her cheek was red.

"We must not reach Calais, if we can escape by the way. Be near me always on the ship, fortune may give us a chance. And if we come to Calais, be near me, while you can."

"But if we can't escape?"

I was puzzled by her. It must be that she found in my company new hope of escape. Hence came the light in her eyes, and the agitation which seemed to show excitement rather than fear. But I had no answer to her question, "If we can't escape?"

Had I been ready with fifty answers, time would have failed for one. M.

Colbert called to me. The King was embracing his guest for the last time; the sails were spread; Thomas Lie was at the helm. I hastened to obey M. Colbert's summons. He pointed to the King; going forward, I knelt and kissed the hand extended to me. Then I rose and stood for a moment, in case it should be the King's pleasure to address me. M. de Perrencourt was by his side.

The King's face wore a smile and the smile broadened as he spoke to me.

"You're a wilful man, Mr Dale," said he, "but fortune is more wilful still. You would not woo her, therefore woman-like she loves you. You were stubborn, but she is resolute to overcome your stubbornness. But don't try her too far. She stands waiting for you open-armed. Isn't it so, my brother?"

"Your Majesty speaks no more than truth," answered M. de Perrencourt.

"Will you accept her embraces?" asked the King.

I bowed very low and raised my head with a cheerful and gay smile.

"Most willingly," I answered.

"And what of reservations, Mr. Dale?"

"May it please your Majesty, they do not hold across the water."

"Good. My brother is more fortunate than I. G.o.d be with you, Mr Dale."

At that I smiled again. And the King smiled. My errand was a strange one to earn a benediction.

"Be off with you," he said with an impatient laugh. "A man must pick his words in talking with you." A gesture of his hand dismissed me. I went on board and watched him standing on the quay as Thomas Lie steered us out of harbour and laid us so as to catch the wind. As we moved, the King turned and began to mount the hill.

We moved, but slowly. For an hour we made way. All this while I was alone on deck, except for the crew and Thomas Lie. The rest had gone below; I had offered to follow, but a gesture from M. Colbert sent me back. The sense of helplessness was on me, overwhelming and bitter. When the time came for my part I should be sent for, until then none had need of me. I could guess well enough what was pa.s.sing below, and I found no comfort in the knowledge of it. Up and down I walked quickly, as a man torn and tormented with thoughts that his steps, however hasty, cannot outstrip. The crew stared at me, the pilot himself spared a glance of amused wonder at the man who strode to and fro so restlessly. Once I paused at the stern of the ship, where Lie's boat, towed behind us, cut through the water as a diamond cuts a pane of gla.s.s. For an instant I thought of leaping in and making a bid for liberty alone. The strange tone in which "You, Simon!" had struck home to my heart forbade me. But I was sick with the world, and turned from the boat to gaze over the sea. There is a power in the quiet water by night; it draws a man with a promise of peace in the soft lap of forgetfulness. So strong is the allurement that, though I count myself sane and of sound mind, I do not love to look too long on the bosom of deep waters when the night is full; for the doubt comes then whether to live is sanity and not rather to die and have an end of the tossing of life and the unresting dissatisfaction of our state. That night the impulse came on me mightily, and I fought it, forcing myself to look, refusing the weakness of flight from the seductive siren. For I was fenced round with troubles and of a sore heart: there lay the open country and a heart at peace.

Suddenly I gave a low exclamation; the water, which had fled from us as we moved, seeming glad to pa.s.s us by and rush again on its race undisturbed, stood still. From the swill came quiet, out of the shimmer a mirror disentangled itself, and lay there on the sea, smooth and bright. But it grew dull in an instant; I heard the sails flap, but saw them no more. A dense white vapour settled on us, the length of my arm bounded my sight, all movement ceased, and we lay on the water, inert and idle. I leant beside the gunwale, feeling the fog moist on my face, seeing in its baffling folds a type of the toils that bound and fettered me. Now voices rose round me, and again fell; the crew questioned, the captain urged; I heard Colbert's voice as he hurried on deck. The sufficient answer was all around us; where the mist was there could be no wind; in grumbling the voices died away.

The rest of what pa.s.sed seems even now a strange dream that I can hardly follow, whose issue alone I know, which I can recover only dimly and vaguely in my memory. I was there in the stern, leaning over, listening to the soft sound of the sea as Thomas Lie's boat rolled lazily from side to side and the water murmured gently under the gentle stroke. Then came voices again just by my shoulder. I did not move. I knew the tones that spoke, the persuasive commanding tones hard to resist, apt to compel. Slowly I turned myself round; the speakers must be within eight or ten feet of me, but I could not see them. Still they came nearer.

Then I heard the sound of a sob, and at it sprang to rigidity, poised on ready feet, with my hand on the hilt of my sword.

"You're weary now," said the smooth strong voice. "We will talk again in the morning. From my heart I grieve to have distressed you. Come, we'll find the gentleman whom you desire to speak with, and I'll trouble you no more. Indeed I count myself fortunate in having asked my good brother for one whose company is agreeable to you. For your sake, your friend shall be mine. Come, I'll take you to him, and then leave you."

Barbara's sobs ceased; I did not wonder that his persuasions won her to repose and almost to trust. It seemed that the mist grew a little less thick; I saw their figures. Knowing that at the same moment I must myself be seen, I spoke on the instant.

"I am here, at Mistress Quinton's service."

M. de Perrencourt (to call him still by his chosen name) came forward and groped his way to my arm, whispering in French,

"All is easy. Be gentle with her. Why, she turns to you of her own accord! All will go smoothly."

"You may be sure of it, sir," I said. "Will you leave her with me?"

"Yes," he answered. "I can trust you, can't I?"

"I may be trusted to death," I answered, smiling behind the mist's kind screen.

Barbara was by his side now; with a bow he drew back. I traced him as he went towards where Lie stood, and I heard a murmur of voices as he and the helmsman spoke to one another. Then I heard no more, and lost sight of him in the thick close darkness. I put out my hand and felt for Barbara's; it came straight to mine.

"You--you'll stay with me?" she murmured. "I'm frightened, Simon."

As she spoke, I felt on my cheek the cold breath of the wind. Turning my full face, I felt it more. The breeze was rising, the sails flapped again, Thomas Lie's boat buffeted the waves with a quicker beat. When I looked towards her, I saw her face, framed in mist, pale and wet with tears, beseeching me. There at that moment, born in danger and nursed by her helplessness, there came to me a new feeling, that was yet an old one; now I knew that I would not leave her. Nay, for an instant I was tempted to abandon all effort and drift on to the French sh.o.r.e, looking there to play my own game, despite of her and despite of King Louis himself. But the risk was too desperate.

"No, I won't leave you," I said in low tones that trembled under the fresh burden which they bore.

But yes, the wind rose, the mist began to lift, the water was running lazily from under our keel, the little boat bobbed and danced to a leisurely tune.

"The wind serves," cried Thomas Lie. "We shall make land in two hours if it hold as it blows now."

The plan was in my head. It was such an impulse as coming to a man seems revelation and forbids all questioning of its authority. I held Barbara still by the hand, and drew her to me. There, leaning over the gunwale, we saw Thomas Lie's boat moving after us. His sculls lay ready. I looked in her eyes, and was answered with wonder, perplexity, and dawning intelligence.

"I daren't let him carry you to Calais," I whispered; "we should be helpless there."

"But you--it's you."

"As his tool and his fool," I muttered. Low as I spoke, she heard me, and asked despairingly:

"What then, Simon? What can we do?"

"If I go there, will you jump into my arms? The distance isn't far."