in the tents
of the Patagonians, on the wild and snow-clad Pampas. A love which was
strong enough to make her sacrifice duty, the world, her fair fame as a
well-bred woman, was a love that recked but little of the paths along
which her lover's hand was to lead. For him, to be with him, she
renounced the world. The rest did not count.

The summer hours glided past them. The _Cayman_ was far out at sea; all
the other yachts had vanished, and they were alone amidst the blue,
with only a solitary three-master yonder, on the edge of the horizon.
More than once Lesbia had talked of going below to change her ball gown
for the attire of everyday life; but each time her lover had detained
her a little longer, had pleaded for a few more words. Lady Kirkbank
would be astir presently, and there would be no more solitude for them
till they were married, and could shake her off altogether. So Lesbia
stayed, and those two drank the cup of bliss, hushed by the monotonous
sing-song of the sea, the rhythm of the swinging sails. But now it was
broad morning. The hour when society, however late it may keep its
revels overnight, is apt to awaken, were it only to call for a cup of
strong tea and to turn again on the pillow of lassitude, after that
refreshment, like the sluggard of Holy Writ. At ten o'clock the sun sent
his golden arrows across the silken coverlet of her berth and awakened
Lady Kirkbank, who opened her eyes and looked about languidly. The
little cabin was heaving itself up and down in a curious way; Mr.
Smithson's cigar-cases were sloping as if they were going to fall upon
Lady Kirkbank's couch, and the looking-glass, with all its dainty
appliances, was making an angle of forty-five degrees. There was more
swirling and washing of water against the hull than ever Georgie
Kirkbank had heard in Cowes Roads.

'Mercy on me! this horrid thing must be moving,' she exclaimed to the
empty air. 'It must have broken loose in the night.'

She had no confidence in those savage-looking sailors, and she had a
vision of the yacht drifting at the mercy of winds and waves, drifting
for days, weeks, and months; drifting to the German Ocean, drifting to
the North Pole. Mr. Smithson and Montesma on shore--no one on board to
exercise authority over those fearful men.

Perhaps they had mutinied, and were carrying off the yacht as their
booty, with Lesbia and her chaperon, and all their gowns.

'I am almost glad that harpy Seraphine has my diam