ly able to put into them a
semblance of activity.

As the party looked from above upon that moving mass, the moon, which
had been clouded over, began to draw clear. Above, was the white and
sleeping town sprinkled with illuminated windows--beneath, many
riding-lights of ships in harbour. The moon sprang from behind the
cloud, sailing small and clear in the height of heaven, and Valentine la
Nina found herself looking into a pallid, scarcely human face--that of
John d'Albret, galley-slave.

He was--where she had vowed him. Her curse had held true. With a cry she
slipped from the captain's arm, sprang from the _coursier_, and threw
her arms about the neck of the worn and bleeding slave!

CHAPTER XLIV.

VALENTINE AND HER VENGEANCE

But as he watched, a strange drawn look appeared on the countenance of
Francis Agnew the Scot. And there came that set look to his mouth, which
had enabled him to endure so many things.

"The lad also!" he muttered, "and I had begun to love him!"

For it was not given to Francis Agnew, more than to any other son of
Adam, to divine the good when the appearance is evil. And with his
elbows on his knees he thought of Claire, of her hope deferred, and of
the waiting of the sick heart. She believed this man faithful. And now,
would even her father's return (if ever he did return) make up to her
for this most foul treachery?

To John d'Albret he spoke no further word. He asked no question, as they
rested side by side during the night-watches. The stammered explanation
which the Abbe John began after Valentine's departure was left
unanswered. Francis Agnew had learned a great secret--how to keep
silence. It is an excellent gift.

The ancient, high-piled town loomed up tier above tier, white and grey
and purple under the splendours of the moon. The Abbe John took it in
bit by bit--the black ledges and capes with the old Moorish castles, and
later corsair watch-towers, the flaring _phare_ at the mouth of the
harbour, the huge double swell of the cathedral crowning all, the long
lines of the arch-episcopal palace on the slope, the vineyards and
oliveyards--all stood up blanched and, as it were, blotched in pen and
ink under the silver flood of light and the steady milky blue arch of
the sky. Such was Tarragona upon that night of sleepless silence.

The morning brought a new order, grateful to both.

The armourer of the _Conquistador_ came down, and with file, and rasp,
and pince-mons