ess and unhappy life I had led these last three
years without sight of her, something--I suppose the great selfishness
which lies under love--rose up and said me nay; and I began to make
excuses in favor of my desire, as that, surely, soon she would come to
a more reasonable way of thought. And in one thing, at least, I was
honest with myself, deceitful as are lovers with themselves, and
arguing ever in their own favor--I did not know why Helena had wept,
and it was perhaps my right to know.

One selfishness with another, I resolved to go on with this matter,
though knowing full well how difficult would be my battle with her,
how unequal; for I was armed only with a great love, backed by no art
at all, whereas, she merely would continue to unmask against me new
batteries of defense--severe politeness, formality with me; laughter
and scornfulness of me; anger, pitifulness, at last even tears; and
always the dread assault of her eyes, and the scent of her hair and
the sweet wistfulness of her mouth,--all, all the charms of all women
united in her one self, to attack, to assail, to harass, and to make
wholly wretched the man who loved her more than anything in life, and
who was driven almost to using any means, so only that she might not
be away, not be out of sense and sight; as out of mind and out of
heart she never more might be. So that, all in all, it were, indeed,
hard question whether she or I were the more wretched. Surely
grapefruit and toast and coffee seemed to me but inventions of the
powers of darkness at that breakfast.

Not so my hardy mates, however, who ate with the keen appetite of
youth, from fruit through bacon and toast and back again, both talking
all the while. Nor, as the event proved, altogether unwisely. Indeed,
it was stout Jean Lafitte who resolved my doubts, and by suggesting
the simple medicine of action rather than meditation, sufficed for the
removal of one of my two minds.

"What ho! Black Bart," said he, after his third helping of bacon, "why
does our good ship lie here idle at her anchor?" Question direct, like
Jean himself, and demanding direct answer.

"Ask Captain Peterson," said I. "He perhaps can tell where we can get
more gasoline."

"No, he can't. I asked him this morning."

"Then 'twould seem we must lie here all winter, unless discovered by
some relief expedition."

"Why don't we start a relief expedition of our own?" demanded he.

"And how?"

"Why, me and Willy, the