. . . !
Breitmann straightened his arms before him, opened and shut his hands
violently. Like that he would break him if he interfered with any of
his desires. It would be fully twenty days before they made Ajaccio.
Many things might happen before that time.

Two or three of the crew were lashing on the rail-canvas, and the snap
and flap of it jarred on Breitmann's nerves. For a week or more his
nerves had been very close to the surface, so close that it had
required all his will to keep his voice and hands from shaking. As he
passed, one of the sailors doffed his cap and bowed with great respect.

"That's not the admiral, Alphonse," whispered another of the crew,
chuckling. "It's only his privit secretary."

"Ah, I haf meestake!"

But Alphonse had made no mistake. He knew who it was. His mates did
not see the smile of irony, of sly ridicule, which stirred his lips as
he bowed to the passer. Immediately his rather handsome effeminate
face resumed a stolid vacuity.

His name was not Alphonse; it was a captious offering by the crew,
which, on this yacht, never went further than to tolerate the addition
of a foreigner to their mess. He had signed a day or two before
sailing; he had even begged for the honor to ship with Captain
Flanagan; and he gave his name as Pierre Picard, to which he had no
more right than to Alphonse. As Captain Flanagan was too good a sailor
himself to draw distinctions, he was always glad to add a foreign
tongue to his crew. You never could tell when its use might come in
handy. That is why Pierre Picard was allowed to drink his soup in the
forecastle mess.

Breitmann continued on, oblivious to all things save his cogitations.
He swung round the bridge. He believed that he and Cathewe could
henceforth proceed on parallel lines, and there was much to be grateful
for. Cathewe was quiet but deep; and he, Breitmann, had knocked about
among that sort and knew that they were to be respected. In all, he
had made only one serious blunder. He should never have permitted the
vision of a face to deter him. He should have taken the things from
the safe and vanished. It had not been, a matter of compunction. And
yet . . . Ah, he was human, whatever his dream might be; and he loved
this American girl with all his heart and mind. It was not lawless
love, but it was ruthless. When the time was ripe he would speak.
Only a little while now to wait. The course had smoothed out, the
sail