That night the weather fell thick, and, the wind freshening suddenly, the ship dropped anchor. Captain Eliphalet Wrye was not so familiar with the reefs and tides of Fundy that he cared to navigate her waters in the dark. This we considered very favourable to our enterprise; for the tide running strongly, and the wind against it, kicked up a pother that made the hold reËcho.

The time agreed upon was toward three, when those asleep are heaviest. I think that most of our men slept, but with that consciousness of events impending which would bring them wide awake on the instant. Marc, I know, lay sleeping like a child. But for me no sleep, no sleep indeed. I could not spare a minute from the delight of thinking and dreaming. Here I lay in irons, a captive, an exile,—but my beloved had come.

“She has come, my beloved!” I kept saying over and over to myself.

Then I tried planning for our future; but the morrow promised her presence, and for the time I could not get my thoughts past that. There was no need to discount future joy by drawing bills of dear anticipation. But it was tonic to my brain to look back upon the hopeless despair in which I had lain weltering so few hours before. Now they seemed years away—and how I blessed their remoteness, those sick hours of anguish! Yes, though I had not given up my purpose, I had surely given up the hope that kept it alive. Then Mother PÊche’s soothsaying over the lines of my palm came back to me: “Your heart’s desire is nigh your death of hope!”

Wonderful old woman! How came such wisdom to your simple heart, with no teachers but herbs, and dews, and stillnesses of the open marsh, and hill-whispers, and the unknown stars? Out of some deep truth you spoke, surely; for even as my hope died, had not my heart’s desire come? And I said to myself, “It is but a narrow and shallow heart that expects to understand all it believes. Do we not walk as men blindfolded in the citadel of mystery? What seem to us the large things and unquestionable may, the half of them, be vain—and small, derided things an uninterpreted message of truth!”

My revery was broken by Marc laying free hands upon mine.

“Are you awake?” he whispered. “The time has come. See! This is the way to open them.” And very easily, as it seemed, he slipped the iron from my wrists.

“Feel!” he went on, in the same soft whisper. I followed his fingers in the dimness. There was no light but the murk of a smoky lanthorn some way off, where the guards sat dejectedly smoking,—and I caught the method of unlocking the spring. “Free your next neighbour, and pass the word along,” continued Marc; and I did so. It was all managed with noiseless precision.

In a very few minutes—which seemed an hour—there was a sneeze from the furthermost corner of the hold, beyond the place where the guards sat. It was not the most natural and easy sneeze in the world, but it served. It was answered by another from the opposite corner. The shrill, silly sound was yet in the air when the ominous form of long Philibert Trou loomed high behind the sitting guards and fell upon one of them like fate; while at the same moment, like a springing cat, the lithe figure of La Mouche shot up at the other’s throat.

For such skilled hands it was but a moment’s work, and no noise about it. Like the rising of an army of spectres, every man came silently to his feet. Seizing the musket of the nearest guard, where he lay motionless, I glided to the hatch, just far enough ahead of Marc to get my foot first on the ladder.

As I reached the deck the sentry, not three paces distant, was just turning. With a yell to warn his comrades he sprang at me. Nimbly I avoided his bayonet thrust, and the butt of my musket brought him down. I had reserved my fire for the possibility of a more dangerous encounter.

There were shouts along the deck—and shots—and I saw sailors running up, and then more soldiers—and I sprang to meet them. But already Marc was at my side, and a dozen, nay, a score, of my fellow-captives. In a breath, as it were, the score doubled and trebled—the hold seemed to spout them forth, so hotly they came.

There were but few shots, and a fall or two with groans. The thing was over before it was well begun, so perfect had been the surprise. We had all who were on deck in irons, save for three slain and one grievously wounded. Those who had been asleep in their bunks when the alarm was given now promptly gave themselves up, soldiers and sailors alike, being not mad enough to play out a lost game. Handcuffs were abundant, which made our work the simpler.

As I went forward, wondering where Shafto was this while, I was met by La Mouche and two others leading a prisoner. It was Captain Eliphalet, with blood on his face, sorely dazed, but undaunted. Indignation and reproach so struggled within him that he could not for the moment find speech.

“Pardon, I beseech you, Captain Wrye,” I made haste to say, “the need which has compelled me to make such rude return for your courtesy. This,” and I tapped his irons with my finger, “is but for an hour or two at most, till we get things on our ship fitly ordered. Then, believe me, you will find that this is merely a somewhat abrupt reversal of the positions of host and guest.”

I fear that Captain Eliphalet’s reply was going to be a rude one, but if so it was quenched at his lips. The door of the cabin opened, a bright light streamed forth, and down it glided Yvonne in her white gown, the black lace over her head.

“Oh, Paul, what has happened? Are you—are you safe?” she asked breathlessly, ‘twixt laughing and tears. The shooting and shouting had aroused her roughly.

“Quite safe, my dearest,” I whispered. “And—the ship is ours.”

All that this meant flashed upon her, and her face flushed, her eyes dilated. But before she found voice to welcome the great news, her glance fell upon Captain Eliphalet’s blood-stained countenance, and her joy faded into compassion.

“Oh!” she cried, “you are not wounded, surely, surely!” And she pressed her handkerchief pitifully to the blood-spots.

“It is nothing, nothing, mademoiselle, but a mere scratch, or bruise, rather,” stammered Captain Eliphalet. Then she saw that his hands were fettered.

“Paul!” she exclaimed, turning upon me a face grown very white and grave. “And he was so kind to me! How could you!”

“As a matter of fact, I didn’t, Yvonne,” said I. “But this is what I am going to do.”

Slipping off the irons I tossed them into the sea.

“Captain Wrye,” said I to him, with a bow, “I have much yet to do, and I must not stay here any longer. May I commit to your charge for a little while what is more precious than all else?”

Yvonne thanked me with a look, and laid her hand on the captain’s arm.

“We will dress your wound, monsieur,” said she. “Mother PÊche has a wondrous skill in such matters.” And she led the captain away.

By this Marc was come up, with a squad of his men fully armed. Some half score approached the second cabin. A window opened, a thin stream of fire flashed out, with a sharp report of a pistol; and a man fell, shot through the head. Another report, with the red streak in the front of it, and a tall Acadian threw up his arms, screamed chokingly, and dropped across a coil of rope.

The precise Lieutenant Shafto had awakened to the state of affairs.

“Down with the door, men, before he can load again!” shouted Marc, springing forward; and long Philibert picked up a light spar which lay at hand, very well suited to the purpose.

But there was no need of it. The door was thrown open, and in the light from Yvonne’s cabin was revealed the form of the English officer. He stood in his doorway, very angry and scornful, the point of his sword thrust passionately against the deck in front of him. A fine and a brave figure he was, as he stood there in his stockings, breeches, and fairly be-ruffled shirt—for he had not just now taken time to perfect his toilet with the customary care. In this attitude he paused for a second, lightly springing his sword, and scowling upon us.

“I must ask you to surrender, monsieur,” said Marc, advancing. “The ship is in our hands. I shall be glad to accept your parole.”

“I will not surrender!” he answered curtly. “If there be a gentleman among you who can use a sword, I am willing to fight him. If not, I will see how many more of this rabble I can take with me.” And he jerked his head toward the two whom he had shot down.

“I will cross swords with you,” I cried, getting ahead of Marc, “and will count myself much honoured in meeting so brave a gentleman. But you English took my sword from me, and up to the present have neglected to give it back.”

“I have swords, of course, monsieur,” he replied, his face lighting with satisfaction as he stepped back into his cabin to get them.

But some one else was not satisfied. Yvonne’s hands were on my arm—her eyes, wide with terror, imploring mine. “Don’t! It will kill me, dear! Oh, what madness! Have you no pity for me!” she gasped.

I looked at her reassuringly, not liking to say there was no danger, lest I should seem to boast; and so instant was her reading of my thought that even as I looked the fear died out of her face.

“It is nothing, dear heart. Ask Marc,” I whispered. She turned to him with the question in her eyes.

“Paul is the best sword in New France,” said Marc quietly, “not even excepting my father, the Sieur de Briart.”

Now so quickly was the confidence of my own heart transferred into the heart of my beloved that she was no more afraid. Indeed, what she said was:

“You must not hurt him, Paul! He has been very nice to me!” and this in a voice so clear that Shafto himself heard it as he came out with the swords. It ruffled him, but he bowed low to her in acknowledgment of her interest.

“They are of the same length. Choose, monsieur!” said he, holding them out to me.

I took the nearest—and knew as soon as the hilt was in my hand that it was an honest weapon, of English make, something slow in action and lacking subtlety of response, but adequate to the present enterprise. Lanthorns were brought, and so disposed by Marc’s orders that the light should fall fairly for one as for the other. The Englishman had regained his good temper,—or a civil semblance of it,—and marked the preparations with approval.

“You have had abundant experience, I perceive, in the arbitrament of gentlemen,” said he.

“My cousin has, in particular, monsieur,” replied Marc dryly. Whereupon Mr. Shafto turned upon me a scrutiny of unaffected interest.

A moment more, and the swords set up that thin and venomous whispering of theirs. Now, what I am not going to do, even to please Yvonne, is—undertake to describe that combat. She wishes it, because under my instruction she has learned to fence very cunningly herself. But to me the affair was unpleasant, because I saw from the first a brave gentleman, and a good enough swordsman as these English go, hopelessly overmatched. I would not do him the discredit of seeming to play with him. He fenced very hotly, too. He wanted blood, being bitter and humiliated. After a few minutes of quick play I thought it best to prick him a little sharply in the arm. The blood spurted scarlet over his white sleeve; and I sprang back, dropping my point.

“Are you satisfied, monsieur?” I asked.

“No, never! Guard yourself, sir!” he cried angrily, taking two quick steps after me.

During the next two minutes or so he was so impetuous as to keep me quite occupied; and I was about concluding to disarm him, when there came a strange intervention. It was most irregular; but the wisest of women seem to have small regard for points of stringency in masculine etiquette. At a most knowingly calculated moment there descended between us, entangling and diverting the points of our weapons,—what but a flutter of black lace!

“I will not have either of you defeated!” came Yvonne’s voice, gayly imperious. “You shall both of you surrender at once, to me! There is no dishonour, gentlemen, in surrendering to a woman!”

It was a most gracious thought on her part, to save a brave man from humiliation; and my worship of her deepened, if that were possible. As for the elegant Mr. Shafto, he was palpably taken aback, and glowered rudely for a space of some seconds. Then he came to himself and accepted the diversion with good grace. With a very low bow he presented his sword-hilt to Yvonne, saying:

“To you, and to you only, I yield myself a prisoner, Mademoiselle de Lamourie,”

Yvonne took the sword, examined it with gay concern on this side and on that, tried it against the deck as she had seen him do, and then, without so much as a glance at Marc or me for permission, gravely returned it to him.

“Keep it, monsieur,” she said. “I have no use for it at present; and I trust to hold my prisoners whether they be armed or defenceless.”

“That you will, mademoiselle, I’ll wager,” spoke up Captain Eliphalet, just behind.