The boat sped seawards. The wind had freshened since the morning, and worked round after the sun, as the wind does in settled weather. It blew now from the south-east, and the boat reached out with a free sheet. Una sat in the stern and held the tiller. Her eyes glistened with excitement and delight. At her feet, on the floor boards of the boat, sat Neal, dripping after his swim out of the cave. The sun shone warm on him, and he had Una close to him. He was safe at last, freed from the terrible anxiety and fears. He had life before him—a glad, good thing, yet there was more sorrow than joy in his face. In an hour, or less than an hour, he must say farewell to Una. He felt that he would gladly have gone back to the gloom of the cave for the sake of a brief visit from her every day. He would have accepted the life of a hunted animal rather than part, for years perhaps, from Una. He was sure that he had never known the fulness of his love for her until this hour of parting. His eyes never left her face. Now and then, when she could spare attention from her steering, she answered his glances. In her face there was no sorrow at all, only merry delight and the anticipation of more joy. “I have brought you a suit of my clothes, and some change of linen,” said Maurice. “I have them in a bundle here, done up in a great sheet. Hullo! there are two bundles. I didn’t notice that you had brought a second one, Brown-Eye. You’ll not leave me a rag to my back if you give Neal two suits.”

“It’s all right, Maurice,” said Una, “the second bundle has my clothes in it.”

“Your clothes, Brown-Eyes! Why have you brought clothes?”

“I’m going with Neal, of course.”

Neal sat upright suddenly and stared at her with a new expression in his eyes. He was the prey of sheer astonishment, then of a rapture which set his heart beating tumultuously.

“You are going with Neal! Nonsense, Brown-Eyes. How can you?”

“I’ve money to pay my passage,” she said, “and if I hadn’t I’d go just the same. I shall climb up into the brig, and I won’t be turned out of her.”

“You can’t,” said Maurice.

“Oh, but I can, and I will. Do you think you and father are the only two in the family that have wills of your own. You’ll take me, Neal, won’t you? We’ll be married as soon as ever we get to America. I’m like the girl in the song—

She began to sing merrily, exultingly—

“Well,” said Maurice, “if you go I may as well take my passage, too. I daren’t go home and face my lord with the news that you’ve run off from him. But steady, Brown-Eyes, watch what you’re doing. We’re close on the brig now. We’ll neither go to America nor back home if you upset us now.”

He took in the sprit of the sail as Una rounded the boat under the brig’s stern. A rope was flung to them and made fast. Another rope, a stouter one, was lowered to Neal. Una seized it and climbed up. Willing hands caught her, lifted her over the bulwarks, and set her on the deck.

“Am I to ferry you across, too, young lady?” asked Captain Getty.

“Yes,” said Una, “I am going with you.”

Neal leaned across the thwarts of the boat to Maurice.

“Stay you here,” he said, “leave this to me.”

He gained the deck of the brig. Una met him with outstretched hands and sparkling eyes.

“Isn’t this glorious?” she said. “You never guessed, Neal. Confess that you never guessed.”

Then she shrank back from him, frightened by what she saw. His face was ashy grey, save for two flaming spots on his cheek bones. His lips were trembling. His eyes told her of some desperate resolution, of some counsel adopted with intense pain.

“What is the matter, Neal! Do you not want me after all? Will you not take me?”

“No, I will not take you.”

It was all he succeeded in saying before a sob choked him. Una stared at him in terrified surprise; but even then, even with his own words in her ears, she did not doubt his love for her. She waited.

“Una,” he said at last, “I cannot take you with me.”

She gazed at him with wide, pitiful eyes, like the eyes of a little child struck suddenly and inexplicably by the hand of some trusted friend. Neal trembled and turned away from her. He could not look at her while he spoke.

“Una, dearest, it is not that I do not love you. I love you. Oh, heart of my heart, I love you. I would give——”

He sobbed again. Then, with an effort, he mastered himself, and spoke slowly in low, tender tones.

“Una, your father has trusted me. He has helped me, saved me. He has been my friend. I am bound in honour to him. I cannot take you from him like this.”

“Ah!” she said. “Honour! Is your honour more than love?”

“Una, Una, can’t you understand? It’s because I love you so well that I cannot do this. Wait, dearest, wait a little while. I shall come back to you. The world is not so wide that it can keep me from you. The time will not be long.”

He turned to her, and saw again the intolerable stricken sadness of her eyes.

“My darling,” he said, “I cannot bear it. I will take you with me. Come. What does it matter about honour or disgrace? What have we to do with right or wrong? Will you come, Una?”

“Her eyes dropped before his gaze. Her hands clasped and unclasped, the fingers of them sliding close-pressed against each other. She trembled.

“If it is wrong——,” she whispered. “Oh, Neal, I do not understand, but what you think wrong is wrong for me, too. I will not do what you say is wrong. But, oh! come back to me, come back to me soon. I cannot bear to wait long for you.”

All the joy was gone from her. Forgetful of the strangers who stood round her, she covered her face with her hands and wept bitterly.

Maurice’s voice reached them from the boat.

“Be quick, Neal. I must cast off and let you get under way. They’ve got the old salmon cobble out, and they’re coming after us. Captain Twinely must have managed to tear himself away from the Comtesse. They are pulling six oars, and the cobble is full of men. Be quick.”

Una stopped crying on the instant. She cast a terrified glance at the approaching boat. Then she ran across the deck to Captain Getty. She seized his hand, and fell on her knees before him.

“Keep him safe, Captain Getty. Keep him safe. The soldiers, the yeomen, are after him. Do not give him up to them. They will hang him if they get him. Keep him safe. Do not let them take him.”

“Young lady, Miss,” said Captain Getty, “stand up and dry your eyes. Your sweetheart’s safe while he stands on my deck. Safe from them. For tempests and fire and the perils of the deep, and the act of God”—he lifted his cap from his head—“I can’t swear, but as for darned British soldiers of any kind—such scum set no foot on the deck of Captain Hercules Getty’s brig—the Saratoga. You see that rag there, young lady, that rag flying from the gaff of the spanker, it’s not much to look at, maybe, not up to the high-toned level of the crosses and the lions that spread themselves and ramp about on other flags, but I guess a man’s free when that flies over him. You take my word for it, Miss—the word of Captain Hercules Getty—the Britisher will knuckle under to that rag. He’s seen the stars and stripes before now, and he knows he’s just got to slip his tail in between his hind legs and scoot, scoot tarnation quick from the place where that rag flutters on the breeze.”