“I will not,” is the stern, cold reply which he gives to the speaker’s query. This latter grinds his teeth, but checks the rising anger within him, and speaks once more in a persuasive, almost pleading voice. “Think again. Consider all that depends on your decision. After all, my request is perfectly honourable. I simply ask that she shall consent to re-marry me.” “Great God! and you call that an honourable request, Lord Westray? You think it a simple matter, that my mother should wed again my father’s murderer? I tell you a death of hideous torture would be more preferable to me, than that a fate so awful should befall her. Cease, I pray you, this subject. I have but one answer to your hateful proposal, and that is, no!” “Have you weighed well in your mind the fate that awaits you, Hector D’Estrange, if you persist in this refusal?” asks Lord Westray threateningly. “My name is Gloria de Lara, my lord, not Hector D’Estrange, as I think you know full well. The fate that awaits me I fully realise. I am condemned to death for a murder never committed; I am to die that your vile vengeance on my beloved mother may be fully wreaked. Do your worst. I do not fear death; and my mother will bear the blow as bravely and as nobly as she has borne others.” She folds her arms proudly, and there is a world of scorn in her beautiful eyes as she fixes them on the cowardly brute before her. A wild gust of wind shrieks angrily above board as the smack rises and plunges in the trough of a choppy sea. The blood-red sun has vanished, an inky darkness has set in, and the wind is rapidly increasing from a fresh breeze into a regular fierce and nasty gale. Lord Westray staggers, and almost reels up against her as the smack lurches forward on the crest of a more than usually excitable wave. There is a rush of feet on deck, and men’s voices are heard shouting above the noisy wind. She starts back from him in horror; she would not touch him for the world. His very presence in the close, stuffy little cabin seems to stifle her. Gladly would she seek an asylum in the ocean’s angry waves, and trust to Fate to enable her to reach the shore, or die. The cabin door opens, and the skipper peers in. “Beg pardon, sir,” he says, touching his oil-skin cap, “but I must put to sea, sir, I must. We’re in for a regular duster. I daren’t coast no longer, sir. It’s pitch black, and the shore for miles along is almighty dangerous.” “I’ll come on deck, Hutchins,” answers Lord Westray quickly. He is a good sailor, but the intelligence does not please him. As he turns to leave the cabin Léonie steals in. She is drenched with sea water, and her hair is wringing wet. As she seats herself in a corner of the cabin she glances shyly at Gloria. This latter returns the look with one of mingled pity and contempt. Léonie’s eyes drop before that look. For the first time in her life a feeling of shame rushes over her.