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;