“I have not been on board my father’s ship,” she told him, “since we landed in the fly-boat. You have heard, no doubt, of our mishaps?” “Yes, I’ve heard.” There was a twinkle in his eye. “But one thing I know not, and that is the countersign. I fear Dyonis Harvie will forbid me the ship.” She laughed. “Nay, he is my tire-woman’s husband. You shall see.” In a few minutes they were under the _Admiral’s_ side, and in one more she had mounted to the deck. “It is against Captain Vytal’s orders,” expostulated the mate, as Ralph followed her. “Under your favor, Master Contempt must stay behind.” But the youth was already beside them. “Nay, Dyonis,” remonstrated Eleanor. “You forget ’tis the governor’s daughter who brings him.” “I ask your pardon, Mistress Dare; but ’tis not that I forget too easily; it is that I remember well a positive command.” And he made as though to assist the subject of their talk down into the barge again. “How now?” she demanded, imperiously. “Are any save my father’s orders superior to mine own? I had not looked to find my maid-servant’s husband so disloyal.” At this the poor seaman wavered on the horns of a dilemma. Against Mistress Dare, of all the colony, he could not persist further, for she was regarded already as a kind of queen in the little settlement, who had shown kindness to the very humblest in sickness and distress, and was above all others most readily obeyed. Harvie scratched his head. “You will explain, I pray, to Captain Vytal.” “I will explain.” The mate walked away mumbling to himself. Whereat, turning with a laugh of feigned delight and mischief, Eleanor led her companion to the room of state. “It is here,” she said, “that the king should hold his court. And, besides, I am anxious to inspect the chamber in which my poor father used to sit, head in hands, hoping against hope for my safe arrival.” She paused. “Furthermore, there is wine within of a rare vintage.” “Wine,” he said, eagerly—“golden wine. We shall drink to our realm, to the England I pictured in my dreams. But no, first, first to our love.” She felt his breath hot against her cheek. “And to solitude,” she added, with an under-meaning in her thoughts. Then, daringly, for the game at moments carried her away, “To an immemorial captivity in the room of state.” He had, however, thrown caution to the winds, being, as he believed, at the very threshold of a double goal. Nevertheless, as they entered the long apartment, he assumed his old, pitiable air. “It is cruel,” he said, “to mention captivity to one who, having but just escaped so fell a slavery, is again in direst bondage.” “It was thoughtless,” she allowed, with subtle truth, “and reprehensible to talk of victory when as yet we have neither of us won.” He strove to encircle her waist with his arm, but once more, as if with natural coquetry, she eluded him. “Not yet won?” he whispered, passionately. “It is won; it shall be won—and by me.”