"You will have your beautiful little ship," she said slowly. "You will have wonderful adventures--and little time to think of me at all. You will make a wonderful deal of money. You will make your name famous and hated among these English. I am expecting you to do great things. But as for me--I am not won yet, Jean." His eyes glowed upon her, and the lines of his face set themselves with a sudden masterfulness. He gave a little, soft laugh. "You are mine! You will be my wife before I make my second voyage." "If you believe that, you ought to be a very happy man," she retorted, and her smile softened almost imperceptibly as she said it. "You don't look quite as happy as you ought to, Jean!" "_Don't_ make me wait for my second voyage! Let me take you away from this unhappy country. Come with me--come with me now!" He spoke swiftly, his voice thick with the sudden outburst of passion long held in check; and he strode forward to catch her in his arms. Instantaneous as a darting bird, or a flash of light on a wave, she was up from her resting-place and away behind the pile of grass and ferns. "Stay there!" she commanded, "or I'll go home at once!" And Jean stayed. She laughed at him gayly, mercilessly. "Would you have me take you on trust, Jean?" she questioned, with her head on one side. "How do I know that you are going to be brave enough to fight the English, or clever enough to outwit them? How do I know you will really do the great things I'm expecting of you? I know your dreams are fine, Boy; but you must show me deeds." "I will," he answered quietly. "Come here, Sweet, just for one minute!" "No," she said with a very positive shake of her small head. "You must go on with your work. You have more to do yet than you realize. And _I've_ something to do, too. I must go home at once." "That's not fair, Barbe!" he pleaded. "I don't care! It is good for you. No, don't come one step with me. Not one step. Go on with your work. I'm going to fly." She ran lightly across the chips, at a safe distance from Jean's outstretched arms, and turned into the trail among the maples. There she paused, gave her lover one melting, caressing, but still half-mocking glance, and cried to him: "I am making a flag for 'Mon Rêve,' and it's not _nearly_ done yet, Jean." Then she disappeared among the bright branches. With a tumult in his heart Jean turned back to his ladder and paint-pot. Little twinges of angry disappointment ran along his nerves, only to be smothered straightway in a flood of passionate tenderness. "Next voyage, anyway!" he muttered to himself as he worked feverishly. "I couldn't _live_ longer than that without her!" And he went over and over in his imagination every detail of the girl's appearance, the changing moods of her radiant dark face, her hair, her hands, the tones of her voice.