There, on the top deck, that she might have no roof above her head, but only the sky, she stood leaning against the bulwark and gazing down into the water far below. This bulwark, although much lower and narrower than those of the Spanish type, which on galleys were sometimes three or four feet thick, walling in the lofty sterns like castle ramparts, was, as may be imagined, no unstable support for so light a burden. Nevertheless, Vytal, considering the possibility of a sudden wave causing the ship to lurch violently, and wanting this or any other excuse, no matter how preposterous, to render justifiable his intrusion on her desired solitude, stepped to the girl’s side. She turned slowly toward him, and, stroking back a lock of hair from her forehead, looked up into his face. “And so you are truly here in flesh and fell,” she said, with a certain wonder, yet no surprise, as though her thoughts had not been interrupted, but rather realized, by the actual appearance of their subject. It was as if she had known, with no need of ordinary information to give her knowledge. And strangely enough her lack of surprise brought Vytal no astonishment, but only a slight perplexity and gladness. He had dimly surmised that she would know, but could not explain the reason of her intuition. And yet, while wanting words, he only gazed at her, a look of regret crossed his face. “You seem not overjoyed, Mistress Dare.” To this she made no answer, but withdrew her eyes, and he saw their long lashes almost touch her cheeks as she looked down once more into the water. “I implore your pardon,” he said, a low note of pain in his never-faltering voice. “But I had not deemed your reverie so sacred. ’Twas a man’s rough error,” and he turned away. “Stay. In going you are guilty of the only error. I would not have you leave me with the word ‘ingrate’ on your lips. Nay, make no denial. I must, in truth, have seemed ungrateful.” She fully believed—and perhaps there was vanity in the supposition—that he had followed her, that even the ocean’s breadth had not deterred him, and the belief deprived her somewhat of her perfect self-command. She was looking up at him now, her hazel eyes wide open, helpless in expression and for the moment like a child’s. “I have not yet said ‘I thank you.’” He made a deprecatory gesture. “No,” she persisted, with a glance more free. “Oh, why are brave men ever thus, turning away when we would offer them our feeble words of gratitude, while they who merit not a smile of recompense bow low, and wait, and wait, for unearned thanks? Yet what can I say? That you are a knight worthy of the name? That I have never seen a nobler play of arms? That you saved my—honor? And then, after all this, am I to repeat ‘I thank you, I thank you,’ as I would to some fop stooping for my fan.” “Faith,” he returned, “’tis the duty of some to pick up fans; ’tis but the duty of others to—”