“Now, Mr. Bill, I am ready,” said Augusta, seating herself resolutely upon a flat stone and setting her teeth. “My word, Miss; but you have a fine pair of shoulders!” said the sailor, contemplating the white expanse with the eye of an artist. “I never had such a bit of material to work on afore. Hang me if it ain’t almost a pity to mark ‘em! Not but what high-class tattooing is an ornimint to anybody, from a Princess down; and in that you are fortunit, Miss, for I larnt tattooing from them as _can_ tattoo, I did.” Augusta bit her lip, and the tears came into her eyes. She was only a woman, and had a woman’s little weakness; and, though she had never appeared in a low dress in her life, she knew that her neck was one of her greatest beauties, and was proud of it. It was hard to think that she would be marked all her life with this ridiculous will—that is, if she escaped—and, what was more, for the benefit of a young man who had no claim upon her at all. That was what she said to herself; but as she said it, something in her told her that it was not true. Something told her that this young Mr. Eustace Meeson _had_ a claim upon her—the highest claim that a man could have upon a woman, for the truth must out—she loved him. It seemed to have come home to her quite clearly here in this dreadful desolate place, here in the very shadow of an awful death, that she did love him, truly and deeply. And that being so, she would not have been what she was—a gentle-natured, devoted woman—had she not at heart rejoiced at this opportunity of self-sacrifice, even though that self-sacrifice was of the hardest sort, seeing that it involved what all women hate—the endurance of a ridiculous position. For love can do all things: it can even make its votaries brave ridicule. “Go on,” she said sharply, “and let us get it over as soon as possible.” “Very well, Miss. What is it to be, old gentleman? Cut it short, you know.” “‘_I leave all my property to Eustace H. Meeson_,’ that’s as short as I can get it; and, if properly witnessed, I think that it will cover everything,” said Mr. Meeson, with a feeble air of triumph. “Anyhow, I never heard of a will that is to carry about two millions being got into nine words before.” Bill poised his fishbone, and, next second, Augusta gave a start and a little shriek, for the operation had begun. “Never mind, Miss,” said Bill, consolingly; “you’ll soon get used to it.” After that Augusta set her teeth and endured in silence, though it really hurt her very much, for Bill was more careful of the artistic effect and the permanence of the work than of the feelings of the subject. _Fiat experimentum in corpore vili_, he would have said had he been conversant with the Classics, without much consideration for the _corpus vile_. So he pricked and dug away with his fishbone, which he dipped continually in the cuttle-ink, and with the sharp piece of wood, till Augusta began to feel perfectly faint.