"Then he's a light sleeper," commented Mr. Rogers, "and an even more dilatory dresser. Why, good heavens!"--the Lieutenant started up from his chair--"he's undoing the bolts! Somebody's at the front door: one of my men to report, I'll bet a fiver!" He would have rushed out into the passage, but the Commandant caught him by the arm. "No need to hurry, my friend! Whoever it is, Archelaus will bring word." Many hasty surmises whirled together in the Commandant's brain--the first, and hastiest, that Vashti, unable to make her escape, had aroused Archelaus, and that Archelaus was unbarring the door for her on the pretence of hearing a knock. Even so, she would be caught as soon as she reached the shore. Still, occasion might be snatched to send Archelaus after her to warn her; she might hide for the night at the Castle under Mrs. Treacher's friendly wing. The instant need was to hold back the Lieutenant from discovering her in the passage, and to the Lieutenant's arm our Commandant clung. "My good sir," expostulated Mr. Rogers, "it _must_ be one of my men. Who else, at this hour?" He fell back a step as the door opened. "A person to see you, sir; from Saaron!" announced Archelaus. "Shall I show her in?" Before either could answer, Vashti herself stood on the threshold. Of the two men, the Lieutenant excusably showed the blankest astonishment. But the Commandant had to catch at the rail of a chair. Vashti had discarded her cloak of furs, and faced him now in such garb as is worn by the poorest in the Islands: a short gown of hodden gray, coarse-knitted stockings, and stout shoes. Across her shoulder, for a "turn-over," she wore a faded shawl of Tartan pattern. (The Commandant recognised it for a surplus one which Mrs. Treacher kept in the Barracks kitchen, to wear "against the draughts" on occasions when she helped Archelaus with the cooking.) But most wonderful of all was her hair. By some swift art the heavy coil had been drawn into two flat bands, brought low over the forehead, and carried back over the ears in a fashion almost slatternly. By no art could Vashti conceal that she was beautiful. She was also too wise to attempt it. But, for the rest, she had transformed herself. "If you please, sir," she began timidly, with an Island curtsey, and paused as if uncertain, at sight of Mr. Rogers, whether to hold her ground or to flee: "If you please, sir, I be that frightened!" Accent, intonation--both were perfect, of the true Island speech, that delicate incommunicable sing-song. The Commandant's eyes grew rounder yet with amazement, and Vashti--afraid, perhaps, of meeting them--flung a glance of mock terror behind her, as though she had caught the footfall of a pursuer. "But--but who in the world--" stammered Mr. Rogers. "If you please, gentlemen"--she turned, with another quick curtsey--"my name is Vazzy Cara, and I come from Saaron. I live there with my sister, Ruth, that is wife to Eli Tregarthen----" Mr. Rogers gave a low whistle.