Gently, very gently, they laid in the earth the body of the Little Marie, and Wat Gordon said the prayer over her he could not remember before when she lay a-dying. It was a prayer to the Lord who takes reckoning with the intents of the heart as well as with the deeds of the body.

Under the shelter of a great dune they laid her, digging the grave as deep as they could, using the same tools with which they had intrenched the citadel she had helped them so well to defend. They laid her on the landward side, under a huge cliff of sand, so that as the winds blew and the sand wave advanced, it might bury her deeper and ever deeper till the trumpet of the archangel should blow reveille upon the morn of final judgment.

"And then," said Scarlett, with conviction, "I had liefer take my chance with Marie, the sinner, than with Barra or Kersland, those precious and well-considered saints."

Wat Gordon said not a word. But he stood a longer space than for his own safety he ought, leaning upon the long handle of his spade and looking at the fresh, moist sand which alone marked the grave of the Little Marie in the waste.

The defeat which had befallen the forces of Haxo was final enough, for among the rank and file there was not the least desire to pursue the conflict for its own sake. And, moreover, the death of so many of their companions was sufficient to intimidate the survivors. Yet Wat and Scarlett were by no means free from danger. For one thing, both Haxo and the fugitives from the party of their assailants were perfectly acquainted with their identity, and the fact of Wat's being an escaped prisoner of the State was quite enough to bring upon them more legitimate though not less dangerous enemies.

By following circuitous and secluded paths, Wat and Scarlett found their way to a wooden shed on the verges of the cultivated land. The lower floors were evidently used in the winter for cattle, but the upper parts were still half full of hay, long and coarse, cut from the polders which lay at the back of the dunes.

Here among the rough, fragrant, pleasant hay the two men lay down, and Wat fell instantly asleep—the training of his old days in the heather returning to him, and in combination with the fatigues and anxieties of the night and morning, causing him to forget the manifold dangers of his position. Scarlett, having apparently left sleep behind him with his drowsy regiment, occupied himself dourly in making up the account of the pays still due to him by the paymaster of his corps, shaking his head and grumbling as each item was added to the formidable column, not a solitary stiver of which he could ever hope to receive.

It was again growing dusk when Wat awoke, much refreshed by his sleep. He found Scarlett leaning on his elbow and watching him with grim amusement.

"I suppose," he said, "once I was a fool and fathoms deep in love as well as you. But I do not believe that ever I slept in this fashion—saying over and over, 'Kate, dear Kate,' all the time, in a voice like a calf bleating for a milk-pail on the other side of the gate."

Wat turned his head and pretended not to hear. He was in no mood to barter windy compliments with Jack Scarlett, who on his part loved nothing better, save only wine and a pretty woman. The grave of the girl who had died for love of him was too new under the dunes of Lis; the fate of his own true-love too dark and uncertain.

So soon, therefore, as it grew dusk enough, Wat and Scarlett betook themselves without further speech down to the little harbor, to see what might be obtained there in the way of a boat to convey them out of Holland. At first they had some thought of getting a fisherman to land them at Hamburg, whence it would be easy enough to take passage either to England or to Scotland, as they might decide.

The town of Lis was small, and its harbor but a shallow basin into which at high-water half a dozen fishing-boats at most might enter. There were few people about the long, straggling, shoreward street, and there was none of the cheerful bustle and animation characteristic of a Dutch town at evening. For many of the men were away serving in the armies of the States-General, and most of the others were at the fishing off the banks of Texil. In the harbor itself they saw nothing to suit their purpose, and none at whom to ask a question. Nor did so much as a dog bark at them.

But on the shingle outside of the harbor, at a place where a ledge of rock ran up out of the sea, with the waves gently washing one side of it, there was drawn up a ship's boat of moderate dimensions, and beside it, seated on the stern with his legs dangling over the painted name, lounged a curious-looking individual, smoking a short, small-bowled pipe. He was a youth, of years numbering somewhere between eighteen and thirty—of the sleek-faced, beardless sort that does not change much for twenty years. The most boundless self-sufficiency marked his appearance and attitude. When he saw Wat and Scarlett approach he rose lazily, stretched his long, lank legs, turned his back on them in a marked manner, and gazed seaward from under the level palm of his hand.

"I bid you good-evening," said Scarlett, saluting Sir Stork as politely as if he had been the stadtholder of Lis; "can you tell us if in this town there are any boats that may be hired to take certain passengers to Rotterdam?"

For they thought it well, in any bargaining, to give out that city as their port, and to change the destination after they had got to sea—by persuasion or by force of arms, if necessary.

"That do I not," replied the unknown, promptly, in good English, though Scarlett had spoken in Dutch.

"But the boat upon which you are leaning?" pursued Scarlett, "is she not a vessel which a man may hire for a just price?"

The lad took three draws of his pipe in a consequential way before answering. He tapped the bowl meditatively on his thigh.

"This boat," he said, at length, "of which I am in charge, is the property of Captain Smith, of the Sea Unicorn, a distinguished English merchantman, burgess of the town of Poole—and I am responsible for her safekeeping till such time as she can be conveyed to that town."

"It is indeed both an onerous and an honorable task," quoth Scarlett, "and one that could only be intrusted to a man of sense and probity—and I am sure from your appearance that you are both."

Wat Gordon was getting tired of this bandying of words, and showed symptoms of breaking in. But as the youth looked seaward Scarlett dug his companion in the side with his elbow, in token that he was to be silent. Old Jack had an idea.

"Captain Smith was perhaps overtaken by the late storm," he said, warily, "and so compelled to leave his long-boat behind him?"

"Aye, and Wise Jan Pettigrew (for so I am nominated in all Poole and Branksea) was left in charge of it," said the youth, with proud consequence. "An important cargo was taken out to the Sea Unicorn in this boat, I warrant, and one that will bring a high price when Captain Smith comes to reckon charges with the owner of that pretty thing."

"Ah, Wise Master Jan Pettigrew, but you carry as pretty a wit and as shrewd a tongue in that head of yours as I have met with for many a day," said Scarlett, in a tone of high admiration.

"So—so," said Jan Pettigrew, complacently crossing his legs again on the boat and taking deeper and deeper whiffs of his refilled pipe.

"Aye, marry! a shrewd tongue and a biting. And whither might this treasure be going?" asked Wat, with more anxiety on his face than he ought to have shown. Scarlett darted an angry glance at him, and the tallowy youth, taking his pipe out of his mouth and holding it in his hand, regarded him with slowly dawning suspicion.

"The matter is naturally a secret of my noble employer's," he replied, with dignity, "and of Captain Smith's. It has not been communicated to me with the idea of my retailing it to any chance idler on the beach who happens to come asking insolent questions."

"Certainly you are right, and very well said, Master Pettigrew," said Scarlett, with admiration. "Wat, my lad, that settles you, I am thinking. The gentleman has his secrets, and he means to keep them. And mightily prudent of him, too. But as to this boat," he went on, "your master cannot mean you to take her along the coast by yourself all the way to meet him in Hamburg?"

"My master has not gone to Hamburg," cried Jan Pettigrew, "but first of all to his own town of Poole, or at least to a place near by, which is also a secret with himself and with those who have the honor to serve him, and in whom he reposes confidence."

Scarlett once more glanced round reprovingly at Wat.

"Ah, let this be a lesson to you, young sirrah," he said; "see how carefully and yet how politely this gentleman can keep his master's secrets? Truly, this is a fellow to be trusted."

Wise Jan Pettigrew puffed and blew upon his pipe with such swelling importance, that finally he choked and went off into a fit of coughing which threatened to end him once for all. For he was but loosely hung together, of bilious complexion, and with a weak, hollow chest. But all the time of his coughing he was struggling to tell something which pleased him, choking at once with laughter and with the reek which had gone the wrong way when Scarlett tickled his vanity with flattering words.

"Oo-hoo," he cried, chokingly, "and the cream of the joke—oo-hoo—is that the captain, being a widower, is sure to fall in love with the lass himself. And at Poole town, when his madcap daughter comes aboard at Branksea, as she ever does, I warrant it that she makes the fur to fly. Would that I had been there to see! 'Twill be a rare lillibullero! She'll pipe up Bob's-a-dying!"

Wat's eyes gleamed like a flame, but Scarlett darted a side-look under his brows at him, so swift and fierce that he started back and was silent. "For the love of God," the look said, "hold your fool's tongue and let me finish what I have begun."

"Master Jan Pettigrew," quoth Scarlett, still more seductively, "you are a man after my own heart. Fain would I go a little cruise, as it might be for pleasure, with a man of your wit and discretion. I tell thee what—Captain Smith cannot be back for a long season. Now we two are anxious to go on a little pleasure-trip to England. There is a mast in the boat. The wind and weather are fair. We have both of us got good Dutch guilders in our pouches. You, like other brave campaigners, have, I doubt not, both sore need of such and a bonny young lass of your own in Poole, or elsewhere, to spend them upon. Why should not we three put the boat's head towards England this fine brisk night, with the wind in our quarter, and boldly steer our way thither? Would it not surprise Captain Smith greatly and make much for your advancement if he should see his long-boat come sailing in after him safe and sound? And how famous would Master Jan Pettigrew be then! Why, every coastwise ship-master would be eager to give him a fine vessel to command, on the strength of such a deed of seamanship!—while all the maids would go wild for his favor, and the home-staying lads would run crazy for very green envy for him."

As Scarlett spoke the pursing of Jan Pettigrew's mouth gradually slackened and the corners widened, till his countenance became in truth a finely open one—most like that of the monk-fish when he lies at the bottom of the sea with his jaws wide for sticklebacks and codlings to venture within. At the picture of his triumphant return his dull eyes glistened, and when Scarlett spoke of his fortune among the maids, he slid down from the boat and slapped his thigh.

"Ods fegs, I'll risk it—I have more than half a mind. But"—he scratched his head and hesitated—"the provisions for such a cruise—they will cost much?"

He looked cunningly at Scarlett, who motioned with his hand behind him to Wat. Lochinvar slid an arm about his waist and undid his belt, from which he took a couple of gold pieces. These he put into Scarlett's beckoning palm.

"The provisions, sayest thou?" quoth Scarlett, deftly jerking one of these into his pocket. "Have no care for that. Here is one piece of gold for you—go into the village of Lis and buy whatever may be necessary for our voyage. And," he continued, "there is no need to tell a man of the understanding of Jan Pettigrew that, when talking to the yokels of Lis, we are only going a little voyage to the Banks to catch the saith and limber-cod."

Scarlett rubbed his finger along the side of his nose with such contagious cunning that Jan also rubbed his and leered back at him in as knowing a manner.

"Trust Wise Jan," he said; "not a word shall they know from me—I am as deep in counsel as a draw-well. There is no bucket can draw aught from my mind unless my will be the rope to pull it up withal."

"Haste you, then," said Scarlett; "speak not to the people at all, for safety's sake, but come back quickly with the provender. And in the mean time my friend and I will fill the casks and beakers with water, so that we may be ready to start as soon as you return."