carried with her from its attendant bag and umbrella, and wrapped it
round her.

"It will be a rough crossing," he said, in her ear. "Can you stand it on
deck?"

"I am a good sailor. Let me stay here."

Her eyes closed. He stooped over her in an anguish. One of the boat
officials approached him.

"Madame ferait mieux de descendre, monsieur. La traversee ne sera pas
bonne."

Delafield explained that the lady must have air, and was a good sailor.
Then he pressed into the man's hand his three francs, and sent him for
brandy and an extra covering of some kind. The man went unwillingly.

During the whole bustle of departure, Delafield saw nothing but Julie's
helpless and motionless form; he heard nothing but the faint words by
which, once or twice, she tried to convey to him that she was not
unconscious.

The brandy came. The man who brought it again objected to Julie's
presence on deck. Delafield took no heed. He was absorbed in making
Julie swallow some of the brandy.

At last they were off. The vessel glided slowly out of the old harbor,
and they were immediately in rough water.

Delafield was roused by a peremptory voice at his elbow.

"This lady ought not to stay here, sir. There is plenty of room in the
ladies' cabin."

Delafield looked up and recognized the captain of the boat, the same man
who, thirty-six hours before, had shown special civilities to the Duke
of Chudleigh and his party.

"Ah, you are Captain Whittaker," he said.

The shrewd, stout man who had accosted him raised his eyebrows in
astonishment.

Delafield drew him aside a moment. After a short conversation the
captain lifted his cap and departed, with a few words to the subordinate
officer who had drawn his attention to the matter. Henceforward they
were unmolested, and presently the officer brought a pillow and striped
blanket, saying they might be useful to the lady. Julie was soon
comfortably placed, lying down on the seat under the wooden shelter.
Delicacy seemed to suggest that her companion should leave her
to herself.

Jacob walked up and down briskly, trying to shake off the cold which
benumbed him. Every now and then he paused to look at the lights on the
receding French coast, at its gray phantom line sweeping southward under
the stormy moon, or disappearing to the north in clouds of rain. There
was a roar of waves and a dashing of spray. The boat, not a large one,
was pitching heavily, and the few male passengers who had