When Pierre d'Antons was able to move about again, he found himself shunned, without disguise, by every one of the inmates of the fort save Bernard Kingswell. The West Country sailors, no longer under orders to treat him with respect and obedience, simply grunted inaudibly and turned their backs when he addressed them. Of course, the door of Sir Ralph's habitation was closed against him. He spent almost all his time in his own cabin, with the captured and slowly convalescing Beothic for companion. He read a great deal, and thought more. Now and again, in a fit of chagrin, he would stamp about the room, cursing, crying out for a chance of revenge, with clinched hands uplifted. During such paroxysms, the Beothic would watch him closely, with understanding in his gaze. The savage was no linguist; but hate burns the same signals in eyes of every nationality.

D'Antons continued to suffer from his infatuation for Mistress Westleigh. The blow of the skillet had changed nothing of that. Whatever his passion lacked in the higher attributes of love, it lacked nothing in vitality. It was a madness. It was a bitter desire. How gladly he would risk death, fighting for her—and yet he would not have hesitated a moment about killing her happiness, to win his own, had an opportunity offered. Self-sacrifice, worshipful devotion, and tenderness were things apart from what he considered his love for the beautiful English girl.

In this state of mind he built a hundred wild dreams of carrying her away, and of ultimately imprisoning her, should she still be averse to his love, in a Southern stronghold. Then a realization of his position would come over him and set him stamping and raving. To Kingswell, despite the fire in his heart, he showed a contrite and friendly exterior. He wondered if he could not turn the young man to some use. He gave the matter his attention.

One evening D'Antons told a plaintive story to Kingswell. All through it the Englishman was itching to be gone; for he spent no more of his time than was absolutely necessary under the Frenchman's roof. But the narrator held him with a mournful eye. The tale was an alleged history of Pierre d'Antons' youth. It dealt with a great family that had fallen upon lean years; with a ruinous chÂteau, a proud and studious father, and a saintly mother; with a boyhood of noble dreams and few pleasures; with a youth of hard and honourable soldiering wherever the banners of France led the way; and with an early manhood of high adventure and achievement in the Western colonies.

Kingswell listened coldly, though the other's voice fairly trembled with emotion. He believed no more of the tale than if he had already heard the truth of the matter—which was, in plain English, that D'Antons was the bastard of a blackleg nobleman by a Spanish dancer; that he had spent his youth as a pot-boy on French ships, and had won, by courage and cunning, to the position of a captain of buccaneers in early manhood. The achievements in the Western colonies had been matters of the wrecking and plundering of what others had built; the high adventures—God spare me the telling of them!

After Kingswell left him, the pirate fell into one of his reddest moods. He was sure that the pink-cheeked youth had not believed a word of his story—had been laughing up his sleeve at the most touching passages. He was sorry that he had not twisted the lad's neck instead of concluding the narrative. It was a sheer waste of breath, this artistic lying to such a pig's head! He jumped to his feet, with a violence that almost startled the Beothic to outcry, and flung himself about the room like a madman. He kicked the stolid logs of the walls. He knocked the few pieces of furniture out of his erratic course, and spilled his books and papers, quills and ink, to the floor: all this without any ringing oaths or blistering curses. His rage worked inward, as bodily wounds sometimes bleed. It played the devil with his limbs, his features, and his hands, but found no ease in articulation. A trickle of blood ran down his chin, from where he had set a tooth into his lower lip. Withal, he was such a daunting spectacle that Red Cloud, the Beothic, crouched fearfully against the wall, and followed his movements with wide eyes; for, though a mighty warrior in his own estimation, Red Cloud was a craven at heart.

Presently the tumult of the madness ceased, and the victim of it sank languidly into a chair beside the Beothic's couch. He groaned and shivered. For awhile he sat limp, with his thin face hidden between his hands. Looking up, his eyes met the eyes of the native. In their furtive regard, he read that which suggested a new move. Though, owing to an inborn caution, he had never displayed a knowledge of the Beothic language to his fellow settlers, and had refrained from using any words of it before Ouenwa, he had picked up a fair idea of it during his sojourn at Fort Beatrix. Hitherto he had paid but scant attention to Red Cloud, for he entertained the Spanish attitude of intolerance toward uncivilized peoples; but now he leaned forward and spoke kindly to his companion.

It was late when Kingswell and Ouenwa returned to D'Antons' cabin. Under the new order of things, Ouenwa had volunteered his services as assistant night-guard of the two prisoners—for the Frenchman was virtually a prisoner. It was their custom to keep watch turn and turn about, in two hours' vigils, one sleeping while the other sat in a comfortable chair by the hearth. Their couch was also by the hearth. This precaution was taken for fear of some treachery on the part of Red Cloud.

When the two entered the outer room, the fire was burning brightly, and by its ruddy light they saw the muffled figure of the Beothic, face to the wall, in the far corner. They shot the bar of the door. When the morning was well advanced, they opened windows and door, and replenished the fire. Kingswell drew aside the curtain between the rooms, and looked in to see how D'Antons was faring. His fire was out and he was still abed. Kingswell moved noiselessly across the floor and peered close. What an awkward figure the graceful buccaneer cut in his sleep! He laid his hand on the shapeless shoulder. It encountered nothing but yielding pelts and blankets. He dragged the things to the floor frantically. His exclamation brought Ouenwa to his side. The Englishman pointed a finger of dismay at the demolished dummy.

"Tricked!" he cried. "Rip me, but what a fine jailer I am!" They rushed back to the other room and investigated the figure on the Beothic's couch. That, too, proved to be a shape of rolled furs and bedding. Red Cloud also had faded away.

News of the disappearance of D'Antons and the savage went through the fort like an electric current. The settlers were more interested and surprised over it than concerned. Even the invalids sat up and conjectured on the captain's object in fleeing to the outer wilderness, and the doubtful but inevitable reception by the natives. They could hardly bring themselves to the belief that he and Red Cloud had gone as fellow conspirators, remembering the haughty Frenchman's bearing toward the aborigines with whom he had traded on occasions.

William Trigget shook his head when he heard the story, and rated the men who had been on duty along the palisade with unsparing frankness. Sir Ralph looked worried, and Mistress Beatrix looked surprised.

"It seems a very simple trick," she murmured, "to bundle up a few blankets into lifelike effigies, and then to slip away while the jailer is elsewhere spending a social evening."

Kingswell flushed hotly, and looked at the girl steadily; but he failed to meet her eyes.

"Yes," he said, "they slipped away while two men were on guard along the walls, and while the self-appointed jailer, who has not had four hours' sleep in any night in the past three weeks, was playing chess with your ladyship."

"I am sure it is no loss to us," interposed the baronet quickly. "We have no use for the savage; and as to D'Antons—why, if the enemy kill him, it will save some one else the trouble. But I cannot help wondering at him taking so dangerous a risk. If he had been on friendly terms with the natives at any time, one would have a clue. But he always treated them like dogs."

Kingswell turned a casual shoulder toward the lady, and gave all his attention to the baronet and the affair of the Frenchman. The blush of shame had gone, leaving his face unusually pale. His eyes, also, showed a change—a chilling from blue to gray, with a surface glitter and a shadow behind.

"You may be sure," he replied to Sir Ralph, "that D'Antons has taken what he considers the lesser risk. I'll wager he has won the savage to him, hand and heart. I was a fool not to have removed Red Cloud to one of the other huts."

"He was kept to D'Antons' cabin by my orders," said the baronet.

"I had forgotten that," replied Kingswell. "Then I am not the only scapegrace of the community."

The baronet's face lighted whimsically, and he smiled at the young man. But the girl did not receive the implication in the same spirit. She stared at the speaker as if he were some surprising species of bird that had flown in at the window.

"Such a remark rings dangerously of insubordination," she exclaimed, "not to mention the impertinence of it."

Sir Ralph looked at her, completely puzzled, and murmured a remonstrance. It is a wise father that knows his own daughter. Kingswell turned an expressionless face toward the fire for a moment. Then he bowed to Sir Ralph. "If I am guilty of impertinence, sir, I humbly crave your pardon," he said. "As to insubordination—why, I believe there is nothing to say on that head, as I am a free agent; but I think you understand, sir, that I and my men are entirely at your service, as we have been ever since the day we first accepted the hospitality of Fort Beatrix. My men, at least, have not failed in any duty, whatever my delinquencies."

With an exclamation of sincere concern, the baronet stepped close to his friend and placed a hand on either of his shoulders.

"Bernard—my dear lad—why all this talk of pardon, and duty, and delinquencies, and God knows what else? If you believe that I consider you guilty of any carelessness, you must think me ungrateful indeed."

His voice, his look, his gesture, all convinced Kingswell that the words were sincere, and so did something toward the mending of his injured feelings. To the baronet, his eyes brightened and his manner unbent. He took his departure immediately after.

Sir Ralph turned to his daughter as the door closed behind Kingswell.

"I do not understand your treatment of him," he said. "Surely you realize that he is a friend—and friends are not so common that we can afford to flout them at every turn." He did not speak angrily, but the girl saw plainly enough that he was seriously displeased.

"The boy is so insufferably self-satisfied," she explained, weakly. "How indignation would have burned within him had some one else allowed the prisoners to escape."

The baronet gazed at her pensively for several seconds, and then took her hand tenderly between his own.

"You do the brave lad an injustice, my sweeting," he said. "What you take for conceit is just youth, and strength, and fearlessness, and a clean conscience. He has nothing of the braggart in him—not a hint of it. I am sorry you like him so little, my daughter, for he is a good lad and well-disposed toward us."