Wolf Slayer, who had brought warning of the menace of the freshet to Fort Beatrix, soon showed his evil hand. He had arrived at the fort in a starving condition and still weak from wounds received in the battle in which his father had been killed. Had he been well and filled with meat, he would undoubtedly have let the inmates of the fort and the camp lie in ignorance of the danger. For ten days he was fed and cared for by the settlers. By the end of that time, he felt himself again. The old arrogance burned in his eyes; the old sneer returned to his lips. Ouenwa read the signs and wondered how the deviltry would show itself under such unpropitious circumstances.

Ouenwa's sleep was light and fitful on the tenth night after the overflowing of the river. About midnight he awoke, turned over, and could not get back to his dreams. So he lay wide-awake, thinking of the future. He could hear Bernard Kingswell's peaceful breathing. He thought of his friend, and his heart warmed to him with gratitude and comrade-love. He thought of Beatrix, smiled wistfully in the darkness, and put the bright vision away from him. What was that? He breathed more softly and lifted his head. Was it fancy, or—or what? He shifted noiselessly to the farther edge of the couch. A hand brushed along his pillow of folded blanket. Next moment he gripped an unseen wrist and closed with a silent enemy.

Minutes passed before the wrestlers stumbled against a stool, with a clatter that startled Kingswell to his feet. The Englishman leaped to the hearth, kicked the fallen coals to life, and threw a roll of birch bark on top of them. Then he stepped aside until the yellow flame lighted the room. The illumination was just in time, for Wolf Slayer had the lighter boy on the floor and the knife raised, when Kingswell saw his way to the rescue. He recognized the youth, and in a fit of English indignation at such a return for hospitality caught him by neck and belt and hurled him bodily from the prostrate Ouenwa. Wolf Slayer alighted on his feet, snatched open the door (which he had left ajar), and fled into the darkness.

A morning of late May brought a friendly native to Fort Beatrix, with word that three English ships were in Wigwam Harbour. Then Ouenwa and Tom Bent made the journey and returned, in due season, with the welcome news that one of the vessels was the Heart of the West.

Both the new boats and the old Pelican were made ready for the expedition. Kingswell commanded the Pelican, with Ouenwa and six natives for crew. Tom Bent was put in charge of the second boat, and Black Feather of the third. William Trigget and Donnelly were left to see that no harm came to Mistress Westleigh—and, as the boats stole down-stream, in the gray of the dawn, William Trigget treasured in his hand a duly witnessed document, in which Bernard Kingswell, gentleman, of Bristol, bequeathed and willed all his earthly goods to Beatrix Westleigh, spinster, of Fort Beatrix, in the Newfounde Land, and late of Beverly and Randon, in Somersetshire, England.

The parting between Beatrix and her lover had been a fond one, but the man had noticed (and in his heart regretted) the fortitude with which she bade him farewell and godspeed. He worried about it in his sleep, and again, as he looked longingly at her cabin in the bleak dawn. He tried to comfort himself with memories of a hundred incidents that placed the sincerity of her love beyond a shadow of doubt. But, for all that, she might have shed a few tears. Surely she realized the chances of danger?—the risk he was running, for her sake? Love is edged and barbed by just such little and unreasonable questionings.

A white mist wreathed along the surface of Gray Goose River when the three boats swung down with the current. The Beothics were armed with English knives. There were no firearms aboard any of the little vessels. Kingswell and Ouenwa had swords at their belts, and Spanish daggers for their left hands. Tom Bent was armed with his oft-proved cutlass.

The sun did not get above the horizon until the little fleet was clear of the river's mouth. There a breath of wind sighed through the cordage, and the sails flapped up and rounded softly. Kingswell leaned forward and looked under the square canvas of the Pelican's big wing.

"An extra man," he remarked to Ouenwa, sharply. "Who has taken it upon himself to improve on my orders?"

A blanket-swathed figure, forward of the mast, turned and crawled aft. Then the blanket fell away, and Mistress Westleigh, rigged out in an amazing mixture of masculine and feminine attire, laughed up at the commander.

"Promise to shield me from the wrath of Maggie Stone, when we go back," she whispered, in mock concern.

For a moment Bernard stared, with wonder and embarrassment in his eyes, the while Ouenwa hid a smile. Then he doffed his hat and caught the queer figure to his knee; and in the flush of the morning, under the grave regard of the Beothic warriors, he kissed her on lips and brow.

"What authority has Maggie Stone?" he cried. "If any one has a right to control your actions, surely it is I."

She slipped to the seat beside him. "And you told me I could not accompany you—that it would not be safe," she replied.

"Ay, but it was my duty to bid you remain behind," he said. "God knows it hurt me to refuse your so—so flattering a wish. But you accepted it calmly, dear heart."

"I accepted it for what it was worth," she laughed. "I could not shed tears over a parting which I felt certain was not to take place." Her face changed quickly from merriment to gravity. "I could not have stayed in the fort without you," she whispered. "Dear lad, I am afraid to death whenever you are out of my sight. I do believe this love has made a coward of me!"

For a little while there was no sound aboard the Pelican save the tapping of the reef-points on the swelling breast of the sail, and the slow creak of the tiller. Ouenwa, leaning far to one side, gazed ahead, while the warriors crouched on the thwarts. Then the man stooped his head close to the girl's.

"But on this trip," he whispered, "you must obey me—for both our sakes, dearest. It would be mutiny else."

"I shall always obey you," she replied—"always, always—so long as you do not again leave me alone in Fort Beatrix."

"William Trigget was there," he ventured. "And Maggie Stone."

She laughed at that. "Poor Maggie!" she sighed. "Poor Maggie! She will rate me soundly for my boldness. She has ever a thousand discourses on the proprieties ready on the tip of her tongue."

"Ah, the proprieties," murmured Bernard, as if caught by a new and somewhat disconcerting idea. "Rip me, but I've never given them a thought!"

Beatrix laughed delightedly. "You must not let them trouble you now," she said. "When we get back to Bristol, I will guard myself with a dozen staid companions, and—" She paused, and blushed crimson. "I forget that I am penniless," she added.

Kingswell's left hand closed over hers where it lay in her lap. "How long, think you, shall you stand in need of chaperons in Bristol?" he asked.

The three boats sought shelter in a tiny, hidden bay, and Kingswell, Mistress Westleigh, Ouenwa, and Tom Bent made an overland trip to a wooded hill overlooking Wigwam Harbour. There lay the Heart of the West, close in at her old anchorage after the day's fishing. Work was going briskly forward on the stages at the edge of the tide. The other vessels, which were much smaller than Trowley's command, lay nearer the mouth of the river harbour. The declining sun stained spars and furled sails to a rosy tint above the green water.

"Hark!" whispered Kingswell, touching the girl's arm, as she crouched beside him in the fringe of spruces.

A bellowing voice, loud and harsh in abuse, reached their ears.

"'Tis Trowley," he said, and chuckled. "How will he sound to-night, I wonder?"

"You will not be rash, Bernard,—for my sake," pleaded the girl.

He assured her that he would be discreet.

It was dark when they got back to the little cove in which the boats were beached. About midnight, with no light save the vague illumination of the scattered stars, they rowed out with muffled oars. They moved with such caution that it took them two hours to reach Wigwam Harbour. They passed the outer ships unchallenged. Then Beatrix was transferred from the Pelican to Black Feather's boat, and Tom Bent joined the commander. A veil of drifting cloud shut out even such feeble light as had disclosed the course to the voyagers. Before them the Heart of the West loomed dark, a thing of massed shadows and a few yellow lights.

The new-built boats lay about thirty yards aft and seaward of the ship. The Pelican stole in under the looming stern, with no more noise than a fish makes when he breaches in shallow water. The crew steadied her beside the groaning rudder with their hands. Kingswell stood on a thwart and peered in at the cabin window, as Ouenwa had peered on a night of the preceding season. The low, oak-ceiled room was empty. A lantern hung from the starboard bulkhead, and two candles, in silver sticks that bore the Kingswell crest, burned, with bending flames, on the table. On the locker under the lantern lay a cutlass in its sheath, and a boat-cloak in an untidy heap. The edge of the table was within two feet of the square stern-window.

For a little while Kingswell listened with guarded breath. Then, swiftly and lightly, he pulled himself across the ledge of the window, scrambled through, and crouched behind the table. Very cautiously he drew his rapier with his right hand and his dagger with his left. For a minute or two he squatted in the narrow quarters, breathing regularly and deeply, and harkening to the innumerable creaking voices of the decks and bulkheads, and the muffled voices and laughter from forward. For the occasion he had donned the hat, coat, breeches, and boots—all now stained and faded—in which Master Trowley had last seen him.

Suddenly a heavy, uncertain step sounded on the companion ladder just forward of the cabin door. A volley of stout Devonshire oaths boomed above the lesser sounds. The door flew open, smote the bulkhead with a resounding crack, and swung, trembling. The bulky figure of Trowley entered, and the heady voice of the old sea-dog cursed the door, and big, red hands slammed it shut again. Kingswell drew a deep breath, and composed his dancing nerves and galloping blood as best he could. His emotions were disconcertingly mixed.

The masterful old pirate (for such he surely was, deny the charge if you like) seemed to fill the cabin to overflowing with his lurching, great body. He tossed boat-cloak and cutlass on the deck, and yanked up the top of the locker. With muttered revilings at the excessive cost of West Indies rum, he produced a bottle of no mean capacity from its hiding-place, and a fine glass sparkled in the candle-light like diamonds. Kingswell recognized the glass as one from which he had often drunk his grog—a rare piece from his house in Bristol. Those articles the mariner placed on the table, scarcely a foot from the watcher's head. Next he loaded himself a china pipe with black tobacco, and lit it at one of the candles. In doing so, Master Bernard heard the puffings and gruntings with which the deed was accomplished, like half a gale in his ear. At last the fellow sat down with a thud, squared his elbows on the table, gazed for a second at the square window that opened on to the mysterious gloom of the night, and tipped the bottle. The liquor gulped and gurgled in its passage to the glass. The reek of it permeated the air.

"Dang it," grumbled the mariner, "d'ye call this rum! Sink me, but it be half water!"

However, he swallowed the dose with gusto, and smacked his lips at the end of it as he never would have after a draught of water.

Very steadily and quietly Bernard Kingswell arose to his feet and looked down at Master Trowley with inscrutable eyes shadowed by his wide, stained hat. The silence that followed lasted only a few seconds, but to the staring mariner it seemed a matter of hours. He sprawled on his low stool, open-mouthed, red-eyed, with his big hands nerveless on the table, and the lighted pipe unheeded at his feet.

"Traitor!" said Kingswell, coldly; and leaning across the table he tweaked the purple tip of Trowley's nose between thumb and finger. To do so, he laid his dagger on the edge of the mahogany for a second. The indignity called forth no more than a gurgle of terror from the master mariner. Kingswell plucked up the thin blade and flashed it within an inch of the whiskered face. Still the fellow sagged on his stool, unable to stir a muscle. Kingswell whistled three low notes. Ouenwa crawled through the port, with a coil of light rope in his hand. Tom Bent followed. Trowley threw off the spell of the supposed ghostly visitation and got to his feet with a bellow of rage and fear. In an instant he was flat on his back, with a gagging hand across his mouth and another at his throat. He was soon bound hand and foot, and securely gagged with a strip of his own boat-cloak.

Ouenwa stuck his head through the open port, and whispered a word or two. One by one, four of his braves entered, with their knives unsheathed. Kingswell motioned them to follow, and softly opened the cabin door. On the port side of the alley-way, beside the companion ladder, Trowley's mate lay asleep in his bunk. Kingswell bent over him and saw that he was a stranger. He nodded significantly; and in an amazingly short time the mate of the Heart of the West was as neatly trussed up as the master.

Fifteen minutes later, Tom Bent hung over the rail, aft, and waved a lantern in three half-circles. And not long after that, Mistress Westleigh, Master Kingswell, and Ouenwa filled glasses with Canary wine, in the cabin of the Heart of the West. In the waist of the ship the stout English sailors and the skin-clad Beothics drained their pannikins, and eyed each other with good-natured curiosity. Old Tom Bent was toast-master; and also he told them an amazing story.