I LOOKED at Helena Emory, glad that she did not at first sight recognize the intruder who had elicited her wrath,—for she seemed almost more angry than perturbed, such being her nature. I thought she had never been half so beautiful as now, never more alive, more vibrantly and dynamically feminine than now. She had not even a scarf about her head, so that all its Greek clarity of line, all its tight-curling dark hair—almost breaking into four ringlets, two at each white temple—were distinct to me as I looked at her, even in the half light. Her face, with its wondrous dark eyes, was full toward me, meeting this danger for such as it might be; so that, again, I saw the sweet full oval of her brow and cheek and chin, with just these two dark incipient curls above. I could not see the twin dark tendrils at the white nape of her neck, but I knew they were there, as beautiful as ever. Her mouth was always the sweetest God ever gave any woman—and I repeat, I have seen and studied all the great portraits, and found none so wholly good as that of Helena, done by Sargent in his happiest vein. Now the red bow of her lips parted, as she stood, one slender hand across her bosom, panting, but not in the least afraid, or, at least, meeting her fear boldly, as one high-born should.

She was all in white, with not the slightest jewel or ornament of any kind. I saw that even the buckle at her waist was covered in white. Her boots and her hair were dark; for Helena knew the real art of dressing. She stood fairly between me and the deck light, so that all her white figure was frank in its gentle curves; erect now, and bravely drawn to all her five feet five, so that she might meet my gaze—albeit through a mask—as fully as a lady should when she has met affront.

I always loved Helena, always, from the first time I met her. I had bidden adieu to life when, after many efforts to have her see me as I saw her, I turned away to the long hard endeavor to forget her. But now I saw my attempts had all been in vain. If absence had made my heart more fond, the presence of her made it more poignantly, more imperiously, fonder than before. My whole body, my whole soul, unified, arose. I stretched out my arms, craving, demanding. “Helena!” I cried.

My voice was hoarse. Perhaps she did not know me, even yet. Her answer was a long clear call for help. “Ahoy!” she sang. “On shore, there—Help!”

Her call was a signal for present trouble. Partial, my dog, abandoned in the long boat, began barking furiously. There came an answering hail which assured me that yon varlet, Davidson, had heard. I was conscious of the sound of a scuffle somewhere forward. Below, at my side, Aunt Lucinda gave voice to a long shrill wail of terror. John, my Chinaman, his cue still held fast in the jammed edges of the door, chimed in dismally. Midships I heard a muffled knocking at Williams’, the engineer’s, hatch.

I forgot I was standing masked, with a naked weapon in my hand. I dropped my mask, dropped my weapon, and turned quickly toward Helena.

“Be silent!” I commanded her.

She stood for one instant, her hands at her cheeks. Then, “Ahoy!” rang out her voice once more in sheer disobedience, and “You!” she said to me, furious.

“Yes, I,” was my answer, and my own fury was now as cold as hers. “Go below,” I ordered her. “I am in command of this boat. Quick!”

I had never spoken thus to her in all my life, but almost to my surprise she changed now. As though half in doubt, she turned toward the stair leading down to the ladies’ cabin where Aunt Lucinda was shrieking in terror. “Guard the door,” I called to L’Olonnois as I turned away. I heard it slam shut and the click of the lock told me my prisoners were safe, so I hastened forward.

“Good Lord, Mr. Harry!” cried my skipper, Peterson, when he saw me. “Come here, take this little devil—away—I’m afraid he’ll knife me.”

I hurried to him for he struggled in the dark with Jean Lafitte.

“To the rescue, Black Bart!” called Jean Lafitte. “Catch his other arm. I’ve got this one, and if he moves, by Heaven I’ll run him through.”

“Run me through, you varmint—what do you mean?” roared Peterson. “Ain’t it enough you pull a gun on me and try to poke out my eye, and twist off my arm, without sticking me with that bread-slicer you got? Mr. Harry—for Heaven’s sake——”

“There now, Jean Lafitte,” I said, “enough. He has begged for quarter.”

“No, I ha’int,” asserted Peterson venomously. “I’ll spank the life outen him if I ever get the chance—” I raised a hand.

“Enough of all this noise,” I said. “I am in charge now, Peterson. Go to the wheel. Break out the anchor and get under way. At once, man! I have no time to argue.”

Peterson had never in his life heard me speak in this way before, but now, for what reason I do not know—perhaps from force of habit, perhaps because he knew I was owner of the boat, perhaps in awe of the naked kris of Jean Lafitte, still presented menacingly at his abdomen—the old skipper obeyed.

I heard the faint jangle of bells in the engine-room below. Obviously, Williams, the engineer, was responsive to his sense of duty and routine. The power came pulsing through the veins of the Belle HelÈne and I heard her screws revolve. I, myself, threw in the donkey winch as she forged ahead, and so broke out the anchor. It still swung, clogging her bows as she turned in the current. The bells again jangled as she got more speed and as the anchor came home. Our search-light swept a wide arc along the foot of Natchez Hill, as our bows circled about and headed down the great river. And now we picked in full view, hardly sixty fathoms distant, the dingey, pulled furiously toward us. My friend, the varlet Cal Davidson, half stood in the stern of the stubby craft and waved at us an excited hand.

“Ahoy there, Peterson!” he cried. “Stop! Hold on there! Wait! Where are you going there!”

Peterson turned toward me an inquiring gaze, but I only pointed a hand down-stream, and he obeyed me! I reached my hand to the cord and gave Peterson, Davidson, Natchez and all the world, the salute of a long and vibrant whistle of defiance. It came back to us in echoes from the giant bluffs, swept across the lowlands on the opposite side.

“Full speed ahead, Peterson,” said I quietly.

“Where are we going, Mr. Harry?” he demanded anxiously.

“I don’t know,” said I. “It all depends—maybe around the world. I don’t know and I don’t care.”

“I’m scared about this—it don’t look right. What’s come into you, Mr. Harry?” asked the old man solicitously.

“Nothing, Peterson,” said I, “except that the bird of time is on the wing. I am a pirate, Peterson——”

“I never knew you so far gone in drink before, Mr. Harry,” said he, as he threw over the wheel to pick up the first starboard channel light.

“Yes, I have been drinking, Peterson,” said I. “I have been drinking the wine of life. It oozes drop by drop, and is all, too soon, gone if we delay. Full speed ahead, Peterson. I am in command.”

“Jean!” I called to my able lieutenant. “Reach over into the long boat and bring Partial on board. He is my friend. And bring also our flag. Run it aloft above our prize.” “Aye, aye, Sir,” came the reply of Jean Lafitte. And a few moments later our long boat was riding astern more easily. Jean Lafitte on his return busied himself with our burgee. And at that moment, Partial, overjoyed at also having a hand in these affairs, barked joyously at his discovery of the neglected end of the cook’s cue projecting through the hinges of the door. On this he laid hold cheerfully, worrying it until poor John shrieked anew in terror; and until I freed him; and ordered tea.

I next went over to the hatches of the engine-room, and having opened them, bent over to speak to Williams, the engineer.

“It’s all right, Williams,” said I. “I am going to take her over now and run her perhaps to the Gulf. We hadn’t time to tell you at first. There has been a legal difficulty. Peterson is on deck, of course.”

“All right, Mr. Harry,” said Williams, who recognized me as he leaned out from his levers to look up through the open hatch. “At first I didn’t know what in hell was up. It sounded like a mutiny——”

“It was a mutiny, Williams,” said I, “and I am the head mutineer. But you’re sure of your pay, so let her go.”

He did let her go, smoothly and brilliantly, so that before long she was at her top speed, around fifteen knots an hour. I was familiar with every detail of the Belle HelÈne, and now I looked in both the generating plant and the storage batteries, so that four thousand candle-power of electric light blazed over her from bow to fantail. The steady purr of the Belle HelÈne’s double sixties—engines I had had made under my own care—came to me with a soothing rhythm where I stood near by the wheel. Her search-light made a vast illumination far ahead. Brilliant enough must have seemed the passing spectacle of our stanch little ship to any observer, as we now swept on down the tawny flood of the great river. Who would deny me the feeling of exultation which came to me? Was I not captor and captain of my own ship?

I turned to meet L’Olonnois, my blue-eyed pirate. He stood at my side as one glorified. The full swing of romance had him, the full illusion of this,—imagination’s most ardent desire—now gripped him fully. He was no boy, but a human being possessed of all his dreams. His second self, once oppressed, now free, stood before me wholly satisfied. I needed not to ask whether he had been faithful to his trust.

“I locked the door on ’em, Black Bart,” said he, “and bade them cease a idle remonstrancing. ‘Little do you know,’ say I to them, ‘that Black Bart the Avenger is now on the trail. Let any oppose him at their peril,’ says I to them. She give me candy, the fair captive did, but I spurned her bribe. ‘Beware,’ says I to her. ‘Little do you know what lies before you.’”