The oars dipped again, and the boat ran swiftly toward the landing; and the ship sped smoothly out with the tide. The hawk face in the red shawl hurried back to Yvonne. The girl, sorely overwrought, had once more buried her head in the quilt, that she might the more unrestrainedly give way to her tears. Though she had no least dream of going back, nevertheless the sending of the message, and the realization that the ship was actually under way, had overwhelmed her. Moreover, it had been for weeks that she had endured the great strain dry-eyed, her breast anguished for the relief of tears. Now that the relief had come, however, it threatened to grow excessive, too exhausting in its violence. Mother Pêche sat beside her, watching for a while in silence. Then she seemed to think the passionate outburst should be checked. But she was far too wise to say so. “That’s right, dearie,” murmured the subtle old dame at the girl’s ear. “Just cry as hard as you like, if it does you good. There’s so many women crying on this ship, poor souls, that you’re no ways noticeable.” So many women crying! True, they had not the same to cry about that she had, but Yvonne felt that her grief was suddenly cheapened. She must try to be less weak than those others. With an obstinate effort she strangled her sobs. Her shoulders heaved convulsively for a minute or two, and then, with a strong shudder, she sat up, throwing back her deep hair and resolutely dashing the tears from her eyes. “What a fool I am, mother!” she cried. “Here am I, where, after weeks of dreadful thinking, I deliberately made up my mind to be. And I do not repent my decision—no, not for one instant. It _had to be_. Yet—why, I’m acting just like a baby! But now I’m done with tears, mother. You shall see that I am strong enough for what I’ve undertaken.” “Of course you are, dear heart!” said the old woman softly. “The bravest of us women must have our cry once in a while, or something is sure to go wrong inside of us.” “And now hadn’t I better find the captain, and ask who’s on board?” cried Yvonne, springing lightly to her feet, and no longer troubling to keep the hood about her face. “But no, _chérie_!” urged the old woman. “Don’t you see how every one is still busy, and shouting, and cursing, and unpleasant? This is not the time. Wait just a little. And tell me, now, how you got away.” Yvonne sat down again, and told the whole story, vividly, with light in her eyes, and with those revealing gestures of her small hands. The old woman’s face darkened at the tale of the spy. “And so you see, mother,” she concluded, “I feel very confident that he is in this ship—for the man could have no reason to lie to me about it. I am sure from his face that he is the kind of man to do nothing without a reason.” “Tell me what he looked like, _chérie_!” said the old woman, the whites of her eyes flashing nervously.