now I knew that I would not leave her. Nay, for an instant I was
tempted to abandon all effort and drift on to the French shore, looking
there to play my own game, despite of her and despite of King Louis
himself. But the risk was too desperate.

"No, I won't leave you," I said in low tones that trembled under the
fresh burden which they bore.

But yes, the wind rose, the mist began to lift, the water was running
lazily from under our keel, the little boat bobbed and danced to a
leisurely tune.

"The wind serves," cried Thomas Lie. "We shall make land in two hours if
it hold as it blows now."

The plan was in my head. It was such an impulse as coming to a man seems
revelation and forbids all questioning of its authority. I held Barbara
still by the hand, and drew her to me. There, leaning over the gunwale,
we saw Thomas Lie's boat moving after us. His sculls lay ready. I looked
in her eyes, and was answered with wonder, perplexity, and dawning
intelligence.

"I daren't let him carry you to Calais," I whispered; "we should be
helpless there."

"But you--it's you."

"As his tool and his fool," I muttered. Low as I spoke, she heard me,
and asked despairingly:

"What then, Simon? What can we do?"

"If I go there, will you jump into my arms? The distance isn't far."

"Into the boat! Into your arms in the boat?"

"Yes. I can hold you. There's a chance if we go now--now, before the
mist lifts more."

"If we're seen?"

"We're no worse off."

"Yes, I'll jump, Simon."

We were moving now briskly enough, though the wind came in fitful gusts
and with no steady blast, and the mist now lifted, now again swathed us
in close folds. I gripped Barbara's hand, whispering, "Be ready," and,
throwing one leg over the side, followed with the other, and dropped
gently into Thomas Lie's boat. It swayed under me, but it was broad in
the beam and rode high in the water; no harm happened. Then I stood
square in the bows and whispered "Now!" For the beating of my heart I
scarcely heard my own voice, but I spoke louder than I knew. At the same
instant that Barbara sprang into my arms, there was a rush of feet
across the deck, an oath rang loud in French, and another figure
appeared on the gunwale, with one leg thrown over. Barbara was in my
arms. I felt her trembling body cling to mine, but I disengaged her
grasp quickly and roughly--for gentleness asks time, and time had we
none--and set her down in the boat. Then I turned to