Mother PÊche lived to do good deeds, and loved to think she did them from an ill motive. Her witchcraft, devoutly believed in by herself, and by a good half of Grand PrÉ as well, was never known to curse, but ever to bless; yet its white magic she called black art. There was no one sick, there was no one sorrowful, there was no child in all Grand PrÉ, but loved her; yet it was her whim to believe herself feared, and in hourly peril of anathema. Even Father Fafard, whom she affected to deride, but in truth vastly reverenced, found it hard to maintain a proper show of austerity toward this incomprehensible old woman.

The boat, soon loaded, went dragging through the flame-lit tide toward the ship. The old dame sat clutching Yvonne’s hand under the warm privacy of the cloak. Here was a weight off her mind. She loved Yvonne de Lamourie and Paul Grande better than any one else in the world; and with all her heart she believed that to hold them apart would mean ruin to others in the end, as well as to themselves. This which had now come about (she had trembled lest Yvonne should not prove quite strong enough at the last) seemed to her the best exit from a bad closure. Anderson she had ever regarded with hostile and unreasoning contempt; and now it suited her whim to tell herself that a part of her present satisfaction lay in the thought of him so ignominiously thwarted. But in very truth she believed that the thwarting was for his good; that he would recover from his hurt in time, and see himself well saved from the lifelong mordancy of a loveless marriage. In a word, what Mother PÊche wanted was the good of those she loved, and as little ill as might be to those she accounted enemies.

Though the boat was packed with intimates of hers, she was absorbed in studying so much of Yvonne’s face as could be seen through the half-drawn hood. “She is, indeed, much better already,” said the old dame to herself. “This was the one medicine.”

Yvonne, for her part, had no eyes but for the ship she was approaching. Eagerly she scanned the bulwarks. Women’s heads, and children’s, she saw in plenty; but no men, save the sailors and a few red-coats.

“Are none of the—are there no men on this ship?” she whispered to Mother PÊche, in a sudden awful doubt.

“But think, chÉrie,” muttered the old woman, “these men are dangerous. Would they be left on deck like women and children? But no, indeed. They are in the hold, surely; and in irons belike. But they are there—or on the other ship,” she added uneasily in her heart.

By this the boat was come to the ship-side. By some one’s carelessness it was not rightly fended, and was suffered to bump heavily. One gunwale dipped; an icy flood poured in; there was imminent peril of swamping.

Women jumped up with screams, and children caught at them, terror-stricken by the looming black wall of the ship’s side. The boatmen cursed fiercely. The two soldiers in the boat shouted: “Sit down! damn you! sit down!” with such authority that all obeyed at once. The shrill clamour ceased; the peril was over; the embarkation went on. Mother PÊche, with nerves of steel, had but gripped the more firmly upon Yvonne’s hand. As for Yvonne, she had apparently taken no note of the disturbance.

Driven by a consuming purpose, which had gathered new fuel from the picture of the fettered captives in the hold, Yvonne had no sooner reached the deck than she started off to find the captain. But Mother PÊche was at her elbow on the instant, clinging to her.

“I must see the captain at once!” exclaimed Yvonne, “and make some inquiry—find out something!”

“Yes, chÉrie,” whispered the old dame, with loving irony, “and get yourself recognized, and be taken back next boat to Monsieur George Anderson.”

The girl’s head drooped. She saw how near she had been to undoing herself through impatience. She submissively followed the red shawl to a retired place near the bow of the ship. There the two settled themselves into a warm nest of beds and blankets, wherefrom they could watch the end of the embarking. But what more engrossed their eyes was the end of Grand PrÉ; for by now the sea of fire was roaring over more than half the village, the whole world seemed awash with ruddy air, and the throbs of scorching heat, even at their distance and with the wind blowing from them, made them cover their faces from time to time and marvel if this could be a December night.

Fascinated by the monstrous roar, the mad red light, the rolling level canopy of cloud, the old woman sat a long time silent, her startling eyes very wide open, her hawk face set in rigid lines. But the lines softened, the eyes filmed suddenly, at a sound close beside her. Yvonne had buried her face in a coloured quilt, and was sobbing tempestuously.

“It is well! It had to come! It was just a pulling of herself up by the roots to leave her father and mother, poor heart!” thought the old woman to herself. Then after a few minutes, she said aloud:

“That is right, dear heart! Cry all you can. Cry it all out. You have held it back too long.”

“Oh, how could I leave them so? How could I be so cruel?” moaned the girl, catching her breath at every word or two. “They will die of sorrow, I know they will!”

“No, chÉrie, they will not die of sorrow,” said the old dame softly. “They will grieve; but they have each other. And they will see you again; and they will know you are safe, with your—husband,” she finished slowly.

Yvonne was silent at the word; but it was not repeated, though she listened for it.

“But how will they know I am safe?” she asked.

“Because,” said the old woman, rising nimbly to her feet, “the sailors are getting up the anchor now, and there is the last boat returning to the land. I go to send word by them, saying where you are. It is too late for any one to follow you now.”

She went to the side of the ship, and called to the boat as it rowed away:

“Will you have the goodness, gentlemen, to send word to Monsieur de Lamourie that his daughter is safe and well, and that she has of her own choice gone into exile for a reason which he will understand; but that she will come back, with love, when things are something changed?”

The boat stopped, and the soldiers listened with astonishment to this strange message. There was a moment of indecision, and she trembled lest the boat should put back. But there was no one aboard with authority to thwart the will of Mademoiselle de Lamourie, so a doubtful voice cried:

“The message shall be delivered.”

The oars dipped again, and the boat ran swiftly toward the landing; and the ship sped smoothly out with the tide.

The hawk face in the red shawl hurried back to Yvonne. The girl, sorely overwrought, had once more buried her head in the quilt, that she might the more unrestrainedly give way to her tears. Though she had no least dream of going back, nevertheless the sending of the message, and the realization that the ship was actually under way, had overwhelmed her. Moreover, it had been for weeks that she had endured the great strain dry-eyed, her breast anguished for the relief of tears. Now that the relief had come, however, it threatened to grow excessive, too exhausting in its violence. Mother PÊche sat beside her, watching for a while in silence. Then she seemed to think the passionate outburst should be checked. But she was far too wise to say so.

“That’s right, dearie,” murmured the subtle old dame at the girl’s ear. “Just cry as hard as you like, if it does you good. There’s so many women crying on this ship, poor souls, that you’re no ways noticeable.”

So many women crying! True, they had not the same to cry about that she had, but Yvonne felt that her grief was suddenly cheapened. She must try to be less weak than those others. With an obstinate effort she strangled her sobs. Her shoulders heaved convulsively for a minute or two, and then, with a strong shudder, she sat up, throwing back her deep hair and resolutely dashing the tears from her eyes.

“What a fool I am, mother!” she cried. “Here am I, where, after weeks of dreadful thinking, I deliberately made up my mind to be. And I do not repent my decision—no, not for one instant. It had to be. Yet—why, I’m acting just like a baby! But now I’m done with tears, mother. You shall see that I am strong enough for what I’ve undertaken.”

“Of course you are, dear heart!” said the old woman softly. “The bravest of us women must have our cry once in a while, or something is sure to go wrong inside of us.”

“And now hadn’t I better find the captain, and ask who’s on board?” cried Yvonne, springing lightly to her feet, and no longer troubling to keep the hood about her face.

“But no, chÉrie!” urged the old woman. “Don’t you see how every one is still busy, and shouting, and cursing, and unpleasant? This is not the time. Wait just a little. And tell me, now, how you got away.”

Yvonne sat down again, and told the whole story, vividly, with light in her eyes, and with those revealing gestures of her small hands. The old woman’s face darkened at the tale of the spy.

“And so you see, mother,” she concluded, “I feel very confident that he is in this ship—for the man could have no reason to lie to me about it. I am sure from his face that he is the kind of man to do nothing without a reason.”

“Tell me what he looked like, chÉrie!” said the old woman, the whites of her eyes flashing nervously.

Yvonne described him—she made him stand there on the deck before them. Mother PÊche knew that picture well. Le FÛret was one of the few living creatures she feared. She rose to her feet, and involuntarily cast an eager look in the direction of the other ship, whose sails, a league away, shone scarlet in that disastrous light.

“What is the matter?” asked Yvonne, in swift alarm.

“My old legs need stretching. I was too long still,” said Mother PÊche.

“No, you are troubled at something. Tell me at once,” cried Yvonne, rising also, and letting her cloak drop.

“Yes, chÉrie, yes!” answered the old woman, much agitated, and not daring to deceive her. “I am much troubled. That was Le FÛret, Vaurin’s man, whom Captain Grande knocked down that day at the forge. He would do anything. He would lie even to you!”

Yvonne grew pale to the lips.

“Then you think Paul is not”—she began, in a strained voice.

“I think he may not be in this ship,” interrupted Mother PÊche hurriedly. “But I’ll go right now and find out. Wait here for me.” And she went off briskly, poking through the confusion with her staff.

She knew men, this old dame; and she quickly found out what she wanted to find out. Trembling with apprehension, she came back to Yvonne—and went straight to the point.

“No, no, dear heart!” she began. “He is not here. He is on the other ship yonder. I have a plan, though”—

But there was no use going on; for Yvonne had dropped in a faint.