"I pray heaven," said I cheerfully, "that I may never be in greater.

Come, Mistress Barbara, sport for sport, trick for trick, feint for feint. I think your intention of leaving me was pretty much as real as this peril of drowning from which I have escaped."

Her hands, which still implored me, fell to her side. An expression of wonder spread over her face.

"In truth, I meant to leave you," she said.

"And why, madame?"

"Because I burdened you."

"But you had consented to accept my aid."

"While you seemed to give it willingly. But I had angered you in the matter of that----"

"Ay, of that guinea. Well, it was my last."

"Yes, of the guinea. Although I was foolish, yet I could not endure your----" Again she hesitated.

"Pray let me hear?" said I.

"I would not stay where my company was suffered rather than prized,"

said she.

"So you were for trying fortune alone?"

"Better that than with an unwilling defender," said she.

"Behold your injustice!" I cried. "For, rather than lose you, I have faced all, even drowning!" And I laughed.

Her eyes were fixed on my face, but she did not speak. I believe she feared to ask me the question that was in her dark eyes. But at last she murmured:

"Why do you speak of tricks? Simon, why do you laugh?"

"Why, since by a trick you left me--indeed I cannot believe it was no trick."

"I swear it was no trick!"

"I warrant it was. And thus by a trick I have contrived to thwart it."

"By a trick?"

"Most a.s.suredly. Am I a man to drown with half a mile's swimming in smooth water?" Again I laughed.

She leant forward and spoke in an agitated voice, yet imperiously.

"Tell me the truth. Were you indeed in danger and distress?"

"Not a whit," said I composedly. "But you wouldn't wait for me."

Slowly came her next question.

"It was a trick, then?"

"And crowned with great success," said I.

"All a trick?"

"Throughout," I answered.

Her face grew set and rigid, and, if it might be, yet paler than before.

I waited for her to speak, but she said nothing. She drew away the cloak that she had offered me, and, wrapping it about her shoulders, withdrew to the stern of the boat. I took her place, and laid hold of the oars.

"What's your pleasure now, madame?" I asked.

"What you will," she said briefly.

I looked at her; she met my gaze with a steady regard. I had expected scorn, but found grief and hurt. Accused by the sight, I wrapped myself in a cold flippancy.

"There is small choice," said I. "The beach is there, and that we have found not pleasant. Calais is yonder, where certainly we must not go. To Dover then? Evening falls, and if we go gently it will be dark before we reach the town."

"Where you will. I care not," said Barbara, and she folded her cloak so about her face that I could see little more of her than her eyes and her brows. Here at length was my triumph, as sweet as such joys are; malice is their fount and they smack of its bitterness. Had I followed my heart, I would have prayed her pardon. A sore spirit I had impelled her, my revenge lacked justice. Yet I would not abase myself, being now in my turn sore and therefore obstinate. With slow strokes I propelled the boat towards Dover town.

For half an hour I rowed; dusk fell, and I saw the lights of Dover. A gentler mood came on me. I rested an instant, and, leaning forward, said to Barbara:

"Yet I must thank you. Had I been in peril, you would have saved me."

No answer came.

"I perceived that you were moved by my fancied danger," I persisted.

Then she spoke clearly, calmly, and coldly.

"I wouldn't have a dog drown under my eyes," said she. "The spectacle is painful."

I performed such a bow as I could, sitting there, and took up my oars again. I had made my advance; if such were the welcome, no more should come from me. I rowed slowly on, then lay on my oars awhile, waiting for darkness to fall. The night came, misty again and chill. I grew cold as I waited (my clothes were but half-dry), and would gladly have thumped myself with my hands. But I should have seemed to ask pity of the statue that sat there, enveloped in the cloak, with closed eyes and pale unmoved face. Suddenly she spoke.

"Are you cold, sir?"

"Cold? I am somewhat over-heated with rowing, madame," I answered. "But, I pray you, wrap your cloak closer round you."

"I am very well, I thank you, sir."

Yet cold I was, and bitterly. Moreover I was hungry and somewhat faint.

Was Barbara hungry? I dared not ask her lest she should find a fresh mockery in the question.

When I ventured to beach the boat a little way out of Dover, it was quite dark, being hard on ten o'clock. I offered Barbara my hand to alight, but she pa.s.sed it by unnoticed. Leaving the boat to its fate, we walked towards the town.

"Where are you taking me?" asked Barbara.