these miles I have followed after
you; and all these years I have thought of you. You do not know--you
do not know! It has been one long agony. Now go, please. I promise to
keep myself as courteous as I can. You and I and Aunt Lucinda will
just have a pleasant voyage together until--until that time. Try to be
kind to me, Helena, as I shall try to be with you."

Silent, unsmiling, she disappeared beyond her cabin door, nor would
she eat dinner even in her cabin, although Aunt Lucinda did; and found
the ninety-three was helping her neuralgia.

I know not if they slept, but I slept not at all. The shadows hung
black about us as we lay at anchor four miles inland, silent, and with
no lights burning to betray us. Now and again, I could hear faint
voices of the night, betimes croakings, splashings in the black water
about us. It was as though the jungle had enclosed us, deep and
secret-keeping. And in my heart the fierce fever of the jungle's
teachings burned, so that I might not sleep.

But in the morning Helena was fresh, all in white, and with no more
than a faint blue of shadow beneath her eyes. She honored us at
breakfast, and made no manner of reference to what had gone on the
evening before. This, then, I saw, was to be our _modus vivendi_;
convention, the social customs we all had known, the art, the gloss,
the veneer of life, as life runs on in society as we have organized
it! Ah, she fought cunningly!

"Black Bart," said L'Olonnois, after breakfast as we all stood on
deck--Helena, Auntie Lucinda and all--"what's all them things floatin'
around in the water?"

"They look like bottles, leftenant," said I; "perhaps they may have
floated in here. How do you suppose they came here, Mrs. Daniver?" I
asked.

"How should I know?" sniffed that lady.

"Well, good leftenant, go overside, you and Jean, and gather up all
those bottles, and carry them with my compliments to the ladies at
their cabin. You can have the satisfaction of throwing them all
overboard later on, Mrs. Daniver. Only, remember, that there is no
current in the bayou, and they will stay where they fall for weeks,
unless for the wind."

"And where shall we be, then?" demanded Auntie Lucinda, who had eaten
a hearty breakfast, and I must say was looking uncommon fit for one so
afflicted with neuralgia.

"Oh, very likely here, in the same place, my dear Mrs. Daniver," said
I, "unless war should break out meantime. At present we all seem to
have a very