Mistress Barbara reached her cabin door, free, save for that rebellious tear which the Frenchman had seen, of any outward mark of the turbulence of her emotions. But once within, and the key turned in the lock, she buried her face in her hands, her frame racked by hard, dry sobs which filled her throat and overwhelmed her. Fearful that the sounds might reach the ears of him who had caused them, she clenched her teeth upon her kerchief, wrapped her cloak closely about her neck and face, and threw herself upon the bench in an agony of mortification. God help her! Had it all been in vain? She had sought the man, she had found him, and he had repulsed her unkindly, even cruelly, as though she had been a foolish child or a dotard—a person unworthy of consideration. Was this the one she had known in London, the gallant Chevalier Mornay, who, however bold or daring, carried forward his presumptions with a grace and courtesy which robbed them of their offensiveness? She might acknowledge this now that he was grown so different. What had come over him? Was he mad? He had repulsed her as though she sought to do him an injury; had spoken to her as she had heard him speak to the vile creatures about him, in a tone which lowered her to their own low level. He had spurned her, scorned her lightly, carelessly, coolly, as though even his scorn were too valuable an emotion to squander upon one he held in such a low estimation. Never had she been treated thus by man or woman, and her gorge rose at the thought of it. The sobbing ceased, and in place of her distress came an unreasoning, quiet fury—fury at herself, at him, at the world which had brought her to such a pass. She rose and, angrily brushing the wet, straggling hair from her eyes, threw wide the stern casement to look out on the gray turmoil of waters which vanished into the unseen. Was this the man for whom she had left London and sacrificed everything? Was this fool who threw her favors aside like a tarnished ribbon, was this the man who had followed her about from place to place in London, seeking to win her by the same bold methods he had used with other women, fawning—yes, fawning—for a look or a glance which he might read to his advantage? She laughed aloud. Ah! he had found none. No sign, not the faintest quiver of an eyelid had she ever given him; nor even dignified him by her righteous anger until that night in the garden at Dorset House, when by a trick he had taken her unawares, to the end that her lofty disdain had given way to an active, breathing hatred. Then, when she had learned that the man was no impostor, but her own kinsman, of whose martyrdom she had been unwittingly the cause, pity had taken the place of scorn, contrition the place of vengefulness, compassion the place of hate.

The damp night wind touched her cheek and brow, the luster died out of her eyes, her lips parted, and the deep intaking of breath and trembling sigh bespoke the passing of the emotion—a surrender. Was he not moving strictly within the letter of his rights? Could she expect him to come flying on wings of ardency at the mere crooking of her finger? Search her heart as she might, she could find no anger there. Of that she was sure, no matter how great the rebellion of her spirit against his cool impenetrability. She knew better than any words could tell that had he been precipitate in response to her news and her petitions, she must have been as stone to his advances. But he wore his armor so well that her woman’s weapons needed all their burnishing. She was conscious even of a sense of guilt. The noble sentiments which had sent her forth upon this wild chase across half the world were suborned to the feminine appetite for tribute withheld. The woman in her saw only her natural enemy, man, rebellious and declaring war, who must at all hazards be brought into subjection.

It might be possible. And yet she doubted. She could not understand. One moment he was masterful in a way which thrilled her. In another the eyes would reveal that which no tangling or knitting of the brows or thinning of the lips could belie. Had she rightly read him? She could not forget that she had surprised him in his subterfuges, that, in spite of herself and him, she could not fear him. What if—? She dared not think. Was the love which this man’s eyes had spoken to her so great as this? Could it be that her fate was ever cruelly to misjudge him? Was there something finer in his life than she had ever known in another’s—something that she could not learn of or understand?

She trembled a little and drew the casement in. The lantern was flickering dimly, casting strange patches of shadow, which danced upon the beams and bulkhead. If monsieur loved her she would learn it from his own lips. If this were so, and she had not read him amiss, ’twas but a paltry excuse for a man of his birth and attainments to throw away his life at this wild calling, to the end that a silly person (who merited nothing) might continue to enjoy the benefits he could thus relinquish. He should not leave her again. At whatever cost he must return to London. The estates were his, and nothing save his death could give her any right to them.

She was warm and cold by turns. She must gain time to win him over, dissimulate, deceive him if necessary. It might, perhaps, be accomplished; a look or a gesture, a speech with a hidden meaning (however at variance with the fact) which might give him hope that she was no longer indifferent to him. Then, perhaps, she might draw aside the mask. He would be tractable and perhaps even pliant. Ah, she must act well her part, with all her subtle woman’s weapons of offense; conceal her feelings (however at variance with the actual performance), that he might not question her integrity. He was clever and keen. It would call for all the refinements of her arts. Were she not to throw a depth of meaning into her play of the rÔle he would learn of the fraud and all her labors would be at naught. Despicable as the task would be (what could be more despicable than mock coquetry?), she must go through it in the same spirit with which she had entered upon this quest. There would be no need, of course, to promise anything (what would there be to promise?), and, when the time was come, she could go out of his life as speedily as she had come into it. Far into the night she thought and planned, while she watched the guttering lamps and the wavering shadows, until at last weariness fell heavily upon her eyelids and she slept.

The cabin was aflood with light when she awoke. There was a sound of rushing feet overhead, the clatter of heavy boots, and the rattle of blocks and spars. Hoarse orders rang forward and aft, and the very air seemed aquiver with import. Deep down in the bowels of the vessel below her she heard the jangling of arms and the jarring of heavy objects. She started up, half in wonder, half in fear, and rushed to the port by the bulkhead.

There the reason for this ominous activity was apparent. Not a league distant under the lee was a large vessel under full press of canvas, fleeing for her life. ’Twas evident that the Saucy Sally had crept near her during the night; and the laggard Spaniard, unaware of the nationality or dangerous character of his neighbor, had permitted her to come close, until the full light of day had convinced him of his error. That he was making a valiant effort to repair it was evident in the way the vessel was heeling to the wind and the lashing of the amber foam into which she frantically swam in her mad struggle to win clear away. But even Mistress Barbara’s untutored eye could see that the effort was a vain one. For the slipping seas went hurrying past the Sally’s quarter with a rush which sent them speedily astern to mingle with the dancing blue line which marked the meeting of the sky and sea.

The intention of the Sally was soon apparent. A crash split Mistress Barbara’s ears and set her quivering with fear. Flight was impossible, and so, in a ferment of terror, yet fascinated, she watched the shot go flying towards the luckless fugitive. It was not until then that the real danger of her situation became apparent. A cloud of white floated away from the Spaniard’s stern. She saw no shot nor heard any sound of its striking, but she knew that monsieur had willfully gone into action, and heedlessly exposed her to the shocks of war. Had he no kindness, no clemency or compassion? Was it, after all, a mistake that she should have given this man her solicitude and confidence?

A knock at the door fell almost as loudly upon her ears as the crash of ordnance had done. When a second and sharper knock resounded, she summoned her voice to answer.

“Madame, it is I,” came in low tones from without. “If you can find it convenient to open—”

At the sound of the voice she gained courage. Monsieur had come to her. Trembling, yet still undismayed, she crept to the door and opened it.

The face of the Frenchman was dark and impassive. If the night had brought a new resolution to her, it was plain that monsieur was in no wise different from yesterday. All this she noted while her hand still clung falteringly to the knob of the door.

“Madame,” he began, “the matter is most urgent. If it will please you to follow me—”

Mistress Barbara with difficulty found her tongue.

“Where, monsieur. What—”

“Madame, I pray that you will make haste. There is little time to lose. I should be at this moment upon the deck.”

“Monsieur would take me—?”

“Below the water-line, madame. There will be a fight. Shots may be fired. I would have you in safety.”

Alas for Mistress Barbara’s crafty plans and gentle resolutions. In a moment they were dissipated by the imperturbability, the tepid indifference of his manner, which should have been so different in the face of a situation which promised so much that was ominous to her. His coolness fell about her like a bucket of water, and sent a righteous anger to her rescue, so that her chill terror was driven forth for the nonce by a flush of hot blood. When she spoke, her voice rang clear with a certain bitter courage.

“Safety!” she cried. “Monsieur is too kind. I shall prefer to be killed here—here in the decent privacy of the cabin.”

“Madame,” said he, in impatience, “it is no time for delay. There must be no obstacle to your obedience.”

She looked at him in an angry wonder. If this were mock insult, it had too undisguised a taste to be quite palatable.

“Monsieur,” she said, stamping her foot in a rage, “I go nowhere for you. Nowhere. I will die before I follow you. Battle or no battle, here I shall remain. Am I a lackey or a woman-of-all-work that you order me thus! Safety! If you value my safety, why do you permit them to make war over my very head? No, no. You are transparent—a very tissue of falsities. I read you as an open book, monsieur.”

She paused a moment for the lack of breath.

“I do not believe in you. How do you repay me for what I have done? Refuse me, deny me, and order me about like a willful child with your insolent glare and your cool, puckered brow. What is my safety to you? I do not believe—”

“Madame, you must come at once.”

“Never!” she cried. “Never! No power shall move me from the spot. Nothing—” At this moment a crash ten times more dreadful than the first shook the vessel like a hundred thunderbolts. Cornbury, in blissful ignorance of the battle raging below, had opened the battle above with the entire starboard broadside.

Mistress Barbara stammered, faltered, and fell back towards the table, trembling with fear. She put her hands to her ears as though to blot out the sounds. And then, in a supplicating dependence which set at naught all the hot words that had poured from her lips, she leaned forward listlessly upon the table.

“Take me,” she said, brokenly. “Take me. I am all humility. I will go, monsieur.”

A soft light she had seen there before crept into the eyes of Bras-de-Fer. As though unconscious, she saw his extended arms thrust forward to her support and heard as from a distance the resonant voice, the notes of which, with a strange, sweet insistence, sang among her emotions until, like lute strings, they sang and trembled in return. And the chord which they awoke to melody rang through every fiber of her being with a new-pulsing joy, a splendid delight, like the full-throated song of praise of a bird at early morn.

She felt his hand seek hers. She made no move to resist him. She could not. Something in the break of his voice, the reverence in his touch, sought and subdued her. In a moment she learned that the love of a life had come and that all else was as nothing.

“Barbara! Barbara!” he was saying. “Look at me, chÉrie. Tell me that you are not angry. I have tried so hard to leave you—so hard. I have spoken to you bitterly and coldly, that your mind might be poisoned and frozen against me, that you might hate and despise me for the unworthy thing that I am. Alas! it is my own heart that I have pierced and broken. Look up at me, Barbara. I cannot bear to see you thus. Ah, if you had only opposed me in anger, I could have continued the deception. Your anger was my refuge. It was the only thing that made my cruelty possible. It cried aloud like a naked sword. I welcomed it, and set steel upon steel that I might shield my heart. But now, listless, yielding, submissive, you disarm me, you rob me of my only weapon. I am yours. Do with me what you will.”

His voice trembled, and he bent his head upon her hand to hide the excess of his emotion. As she felt the touch of his lips, she started and moved ever so slightly, but with no effort to withdraw. When he lifted his head it was to meet eyes that wavered and looked away.

“Do not turn from me, Barbara. Do not add to the deep measure of my contrition. The cup is full. Add to it but one drop and it will overflow. Requite me with tenderness, madame, if you can find it in your heart, for mine is very near to breaking. Look in my eyes, where my love glows like a beacon. Listen, and you will hear it speak in my voice like a young god. Can you not feel my very finger-tips singing into your palms the cadences of my heart’s chorus? Is it not thus that women wish to be loved? Search my heart as you will, you’ll find an answer there to every wish and every prayer.”

She trembled and swayed in his arms like a slender shrub in a storm. It seemed as though, in his fervor, he were running the gamut of her every vulnerable sensibility. But as she felt his breath warm upon her hair and cheek she raised her eyes until they looked into his; then drew away from him with a gentle firmness. She was perturbed and shaken with the compounding of new emotions. She could not see all things clearly. She only knew that what she had expected least had come to pass. She had burnished her woman’s weapons in vain. She had sought to delude and beguile, and had only deluded and beguiled herself. As she had promised herself, she had drawn aside the mask, but she had unmasked herself at the same time. She had sought and she had found so many things that she knew not which way to turn. She must do something to gain time to think and plan. It was all so different to London. In spite of herself, she knew that he had conquered, and a suffusion of shame that she had been so easily won mounted to her neck and forehead, and she turned her head away. And then, in a last obedience to that instinct of self-preservation which sets a woman upon the defensive when she knows not what she would defend (nor would defend it if she could), she broke away from him and stood alone, pulsing with the effort, but triumphant.

“Monsieur,” she breathed with difficulty, “it is unfair—to—to—press me so.”

But he was relentless. “Ah, madame, am I then despised, as on that night in Dorset Gardens? Nay, I am as God made me—not the thing you would have supposed—”

“Monsieur, have pity.”

“Ah, then look at me again, Barbara. Look in my face and deny. Look in my eyes, chÉrie—deny me if you can.”

She felt his arms encircle her, and she struggled faintly.

“No, no. It is not so.”

“Look me in the eyes, Barbara; I will not believe it else. If I am nothing to you, look me in the eyes and tell me so.”

“No! No! No!”

She raised her face until her closed eyes were on a level with his own. Then she opened them with an effort to look at him, as though to speak.

A deafening crash again shook the Sally, so that the ship’s dry bones rattled and quivered under their feet like a being with the ague, and she seemed about to shake her timbers asunder. Mistress Barbara’s answer was not spoken, for at this rude sound a fit of trembling seized her again and she sank listlessly into the protecting shelter of his arms, and hid her face upon his bosom in a commingling of terror and wonderment that were only half real.

“No, no,” she sobbed at last, “it is not true. It is not true.”

Bras-de-Fer bent over her in a blind adoration and gently touched his lips to her hair. She made no further effort to resist him. Then, when the tear-stained face was raised to his own, in her eyes he read a different answer to his pleading.

“Bien adorÉe!” he whispered, kissing her tenderly—“Barbara!”

The hand within his own tightened and the lissome figure came closer to his own. “Take me away, monsieur,” she murmured. “Take me away. Oh, I am so weary—so weary.”

“Struggle no more,” he whispered. “Courage; all will yet be well. Come with me below to safety, and it will soon be over.”

He had moved away from her towards the door, and would have withdrawn his hand, but she held it with both of her own while her eyes looked into his with an anxious query.

“Oh, I,” he said, with a smile—“I shall be in no danger, madame. That I promise you. ’Tis but a Spanish merchantman, with little skill in war. Why, Sally will run her aboard in the skipping of a shot. And now”—as they moved towards the door—“but a little while and I shall be with you again, to keep guard over your door, to keep guard upon you always—always.”