The ship was now well under way, directed by a pilot who knew the shoals and bars of Minas. The business of stowing baggage was in the hands of petty officers. The captain could be spared for a little; and without doubt the soldier’s manner proclaimed more clearly than words that here was no affair of a weeping peasant. To such the captain would just now have turned a deaf ear, for he had all day been striving to harden his heart against the sight of sorrows which he could not mitigate. He was an iron-grey, close-bearded man, this New England captain, with a stern mouth and half-shut, twinkling eyes. Rough toward men, he was gentle toward women, children, and animals. His name was John Stayner; and in Machias, Maine, whence he hailed, he had a motherless daughter of eighteen, the core of his heart, who was commonly said to rule him as the moon rules ocean. When John Stayner went to the cabin and saw Yvonne in his berth, her white eyelids just stirring to the first return of consciousness, there was small need of Mother Pêche’s explanations. The girl’s astonishing loveliness, her gentle breeding, the plain signals of her distress, all moved him beyond his wont. He straightway saw his own dark-haired Essie in like case—and forthwith, stirred by that fine chivalry which only a strong man far past youth can know, he was on Yvonne’s side, though all the world should be against her. As if their low voices were remote and speaking in a tongue but half understood, Yvonne heard them talking of her—the old woman explaining swiftly, concisely, directly; the New Englander speaking but now and then a word of comprehension. His warmth reached Yvonne’s heart. She opened her great eyes wide, and looked up into the man’s face with a trustful content. His own eyes filled in response. To him it was much the look of his Essie. He touched her hand with his rough fingers, and said hastily, “This cabin is yours, Miss—Mademoiselle de Lamourie, I mean, so long as you are on this ship. Good-night. I have much to do. Take care of her,” he added, with a sudden tone of authority, turning to Mother Pêche. “To-morrow, when we are clear of these shoals and eddies, we’ll see what can be done.” And before Yvonne could control her voice or wits to thank him, he was away. She turned shining eyes upon the old woman. “What makes him so kind?” she murmured, still half bewildered. “And what will he do?” “He is a good man,” said Mother Pêche, with decision. “I believe he will send us in a boat to the other ship, at the very first chance.” Yvonne’s face grew radiant. She was silent with the thought for a few minutes. Then she glanced about the cabin. “How did I come here?” she asked, raising herself on her elbow. “This is the captain’s own cabin, _chérie_,” said the old woman, with triumph in her voice. “And a big, boy-faced red-coat carried you here, at my request, and looked as if he’d like to keep on carrying you forever.”