For perhaps two hours Yvonne entertained us, not only conversing herself with a gracious wit that struck but to illumine, never to wound, but calling forth a responsive alertness in her cavaliers. Captain Eliphalet began to wonder at his own readiness of repartee and compliment. Lieutenant Shafto forgot the perfect propriety of his ruffles, engrossed for once in another than himself. Even my imperturbable Marc yielded in some measure to the resistless bewilderment, and played the gallant with a quaint, fatherly air that pleasured me. I, only, was the silent one. I could but listen, intoxicated, speaking when I could not escape it, and my ears averse to all words but those coming from her lips. By and by—I was vexed that his discretion should bring the moment so soon—Marc made his adieux, insisting against much protest that he desired to keep his welcome unworn for the morrow. I could do naught save follow his example; but as I withdrew, Yvonne’s eyes held me so that my feet in going moved like lead. The broad-bearded captain and the impeccable lieutenant most civilly accompanied us to the door of our prison. “This situation, gentlemen,” said Marc, with a smile of careless amusement, “which your courtesy does so sweeten for us, is certainly not without the relish of strangeness.” “It shall be made as little strange as lies in our power to make it, sir,” replied Captain Eliphalet heartily; and we parted with all expressions of esteem; not till their backs were turned upon us did we extend our wrists for the irons, which the discreet guard had kept hidden under the flap of his great-coat. Chapter XXXVI Sword and Silk That night the weather fell thick, and, the wind freshening suddenly, the ship dropped anchor. Captain Eliphalet Wrye was not so familiar with the reefs and tides of Fundy that he cared to navigate her waters in the dark. This we considered very favourable to our enterprise; for the tide running strongly, and the wind against it, kicked up a pother that made the hold reëcho. The time agreed upon was toward three, when those asleep are heaviest. I think that most of our men slept, but with that consciousness of events impending which would bring them wide awake on the instant. Marc, I know, lay sleeping like a child. But for me no sleep, no sleep indeed. I could not spare a minute from the delight of thinking and dreaming. Here I lay in irons, a captive, an exile,—but my beloved had come. “She has come, my beloved!” I kept saying over and over to myself.