Mother PÊche was not alarmed, but, like the shrewd strategist she was, made haste to turn the evil to good account. She summoned a soldier—by excellent chance that same boyish-faced, tall fellow who had so patly aided at the embarking; and he with the best will in the world and a fluttering in his breast carried Yvonne straight to the captain’s cabin, where he laid her upon the berth. Then, at Mother PÊche’s request, he went to beg the captain’s presence for an instant in his cabin.

The ship was now well under way, directed by a pilot who knew the shoals and bars of Minas. The business of stowing baggage was in the hands of petty officers. The captain could be spared for a little; and without doubt the soldier’s manner proclaimed more clearly than words that here was no affair of a weeping peasant. To such the captain would just now have turned a deaf ear, for he had all day been striving to harden his heart against the sight of sorrows which he could not mitigate. He was an iron-grey, close-bearded man, this New England captain, with a stern mouth and half-shut, twinkling eyes. Rough toward men, he was gentle toward women, children, and animals. His name was John Stayner; and in Machias, Maine, whence he hailed, he had a motherless daughter of eighteen, the core of his heart, who was commonly said to rule him as the moon rules ocean. When John Stayner went to the cabin and saw Yvonne in his berth, her white eyelids just stirring to the first return of consciousness, there was small need of Mother PÊche’s explanations. The girl’s astonishing loveliness, her gentle breeding, the plain signals of her distress, all moved him beyond his wont. He straightway saw his own dark-haired Essie in like case—and forthwith, stirred by that fine chivalry which only a strong man far past youth can know, he was on Yvonne’s side, though all the world should be against her.

As if their low voices were remote and speaking in a tongue but half understood, Yvonne heard them talking of her—the old woman explaining swiftly, concisely, directly; the New Englander speaking but now and then a word of comprehension. His warmth reached Yvonne’s heart. She opened her great eyes wide, and looked up into the man’s face with a trustful content.

His own eyes filled in response. To him it was much the look of his Essie. He touched her hand with his rough fingers, and said hastily, “This cabin is yours, Miss—Mademoiselle de Lamourie, I mean, so long as you are on this ship. Good-night. I have much to do. Take care of her,” he added, with a sudden tone of authority, turning to Mother PÊche. “To-morrow, when we are clear of these shoals and eddies, we’ll see what can be done.”

And before Yvonne could control her voice or wits to thank him, he was away.

She turned shining eyes upon the old woman.

“What makes him so kind?” she murmured, still half bewildered. “And what will he do?”

“He is a good man,” said Mother PÊche, with decision. “I believe he will send us in a boat to the other ship, at the very first chance.”

Yvonne’s face grew radiant. She was silent with the thought for a few minutes. Then she glanced about the cabin.

“How did I come here?” she asked, raising herself on her elbow.

“This is the captain’s own cabin, chÉrie,” said the old woman, with triumph in her voice. “And a big, boy-faced red-coat carried you here, at my request, and looked as if he’d like to keep on carrying you forever.”

“I cannot sleep now, mother!” exclaimed the girl, slipping out of the berth and drawing the woollen cloak about her. “Let us go on deck awhile. Morning will come the more quickly so.”

“Yes, to be sure. And I would look a last look on Grand PrÉ, if only on the flames of its dear roofs,” agreed the old woman, obediently smothering a deep yawn. In truth, now that things bade fair to work her will, she wanted nothing so much as a good sleep. But whatever Yvonne wanted was the chief thing in her eyes. The two went on deck, and huddled themselves under the lee of the cabin, for there was a bitter wind blowing, and the ship was too far from Grand PrÉ now to feel the heat of the conflagration. The roaring of it, too, was at this distance diminished to a huge but soft sub-bass, upon which the creaking of cordage, the whistling of the wind, the slapping of the thin-crested waves, built up a sort of bitter, singing harmony which thrilled Yvonne’s ears. The whole village was now burning, a wide and terrifying arc of flame from the Gaspereau banks to the woodland lying toward Habitants. Above it towered the chapel, a fixed serenity amid destruction. It held Yvonne’s eyes for a while; but soon they turned away, to follow the lit sails of the other ship, now fleeting toward the foot of Blomidon. At last, with a shiver, she said to her sleepy companion:

“Come, mother, let us go back into the cabin and sleep, and dream what morning may bring to pass.”

That of all which morning should bring to pass nothing might be missed, Yvonne was up and out on deck at the earliest biting daylight. She found the ship already well past Blomidon, the vale of desolation quite shut from view. To west and north the sky was clear, of a hard, steely pallor. The wind was light, but enough to control the dense smoke which still choked the greater half of the heavens. It lay banked, as it were, sluggishly and blackly revolving itself along the wooded ridge that runs southward from Blomidon. Straight ahead, across a wintry reach of sea, sped the other ship, with all sail set. It seemed to Yvonne’s eyes that she was much farther ahead than the night before, and sailing with a dreadful swiftness.

“Oh, we can never catch up!” she cried, pressing one hand to her side and throwing back her head with a half-despairing gesture.

Mother PÊche, who had just come on deck, looked troubled. “We do certainly seem to be no nearer,” she agreed reluctantly.

At this moment the captain came up, smiling kindly. He took Yvonne’s hand.

“I hope you have slept, mademoiselle, and are feeling better,” he said.

“Yes, monsieur, thanks to your great kindness,” answered Yvonne, trying to smile, “but is not the other ship getting very far ahead? She seems to sail much faster than we do.”

“On the contrary, my dear young lady,” said John Stayner, “the ‘Good Hope’ is much the faster ship of the two. We shall overhaul them, with this breeze, one hour before noon.”

“Will we?” cried Yvonne, with other questions crowding into her eyes and voice.

The stern mouth smiled with understanding kindness.

“If we do not, I promise you I will signal them to wait,” said he. “I find three families on this ship whose men-folk are on the other. It was great carelessness on some one’s part. I will send them in the boat with you, mademoiselle,—and gather in as many blessings as I can out of this whole accursed business.”

“As long as I live, monsieur, there will be one woman at least ever blessing you and praying for your happiness.” And suddenly seizing his hand in both of hers Yvonne pressed it to her lips.

A look of boyish embarrassment came over his weather-beaten face.

“Don’t do that, child!” he stammered. Then, looking with a quizzical interest at the spot she had kissed, he went on: “This old hand is something rough and tarry for a woman’s lips. But do you know, now, I kind of think more of it, rough as it is, than I ever did before. If ever, child, you should want a friend in that country of ours you’re going to, remember that Captain John Stayner, of Machias, Maine, is at your call.”

To escape thanks he strode off abruptly, with a loud order on his lips.

Easy in her mind, Mother PÊche went back to capture a little more sleep, Yvonne’s restlessness having roused her too early. As for Yvonne, she never knew quite how that morning, up to the magical period of “one hour before noon,” managed to drag its unending minutes through. It is probable that she ate some pretence of a breakfast; but her memory, at least, retained no record of it. All she remembered was that she sat huddled in her cloak, or paced up and down the deck and talked of she knew not what to the kind Captain John Stayner, and watched the space of sea between the ships slowly—slowly—slowly diminish.

For diminish it did. That marvel, as it seemed to her, actually took place—as even the watched pot will boil at last, if the fire be kept burning. While it yet wanted more than an hour of noon, the two ships came near abreast; and at an imperative hail from the “Good Hope” her consort hove to. A boat was quickly lowered away. Four sailors took the oars. Two women surrounded by children of all sizes were swung down into it; then the gratefully ejaculating old mother of Petit Joliet, the tear-stains of a sleepless night still salty in the wrinkles of her smiles; then Mother PÊche, serene in the sense of an astonishing good fortune for those she loved; last of all, Yvonne—she went last, for self-discipline.

As Captain John Stayner moved to hand her over the side, she turned and looked him in the eyes. The words she wanted to say simply would not come—or she dared not trust her voice; but the radiance of her look he carried in his heart through after-years. A minute more, and the boat dropped astern; and Yvonne’s eyes were all for the other ship. But Mother PÊche looked back; and she saw, leaning hungrily over the taffrail of the “Good Hope,” the long form of the boy-faced soldier who had twice carried Yvonne in his fortunate arms.