“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.”