“You shall have it at any cost,” replied the other. “Do not I owe everything in the world to you?” “Listen,” continued George. “The young lady whom my honest fellows rescued last night, and whom I brought on board, is—is—Mademoiselle de Montmirail herself.” “I know—I know,” answered Beaudésir, impatiently. “At least, I mean you mentioned it before.” “Very likely,” returned the Captain, “though I do not remember it. Well, it so happens, you see, that this is the same young lady—the person—the individual—in short, I have saved the woman of all others who is most precious to me in the world.” “Of course—of course,” repeated Beaudésir, impatiently, “she cannot go back—she _shall_ not go back amongst those wretches. She must stay on board. You must take her to Europe. There should be no delay. You must be married—now—immediately—within two hours—before we get the anchor up.” He seemed strangely eager, restless, excited. Without actually acknowledging it, George felt instinctively that something in his friend’s manner reminded him of the Marquise. “There is a grave difficulty,” said the Captain. “Where can we find a priest? That fat little Portuguese who looked like a guinea-pig is sure to have run away, if the negroes have not cut his throat.” The other reflected, his pale face turning paler every moment. Then he spoke, in a low determined voice— “My Captain, there is a Society of Jesuits on the island: I know it for certain; do not ask me why. I have never failed you, have I? Trust me yet this once. Order a boat to be manned; I will go ashore instantly; follow in an hour’s time with a strong guard; bring your bride with you; I will undertake that everything shall be ready at the chapel, and a priest in waiting to perform the ceremony.” George looked him straight in the face. “You are a true friend,” said he, and gave him his hand. The other bent over it as if he would have put it to his lips, and when he raised his head again his eyes were full of tears. He turned away hastily, sprang on deck, and in five minutes the boat was lowered and Beaudésir over the side. George tapped humbly at the cabin door, and a gentle face, pale but lovely, peeped out to greet him. After his whisper the face was anything but pale, and although the little monosyllable “No” was repeated again and again in that pleading, yielding tone which robs the negative of all its harshness, the boon he begged must have been already nearly accorded if there be any truth in the old Scottish proverb which affirms that “Nineteen nay-says make half a grant.” In less than two hours the bridal procession was formed upon the quay, guarded by some score of stalwart, weather-beaten tars, and presenting an exceedingly formidable front to the crowds of grinning negroes who were idling in the sun, talking over the events of the past night, and congratulating themselves that no such infliction as field-work was ever to be heard of in the island again.