But things did not turn out as she had anticipated. They seldom do. Scarcely had the sloop gained the open sea when it became apparent that it was too heavily laden. The wind was only ordinarily fresh, and the waves were not at all dangerous to an ordinary craft; yet they broke continually over the rail. Soon it was evident that to attempt to run across the open channel to the Swedish coast would be suicidal, and to run for Copenhagen even more so. Much against his will, Wilkins was forced to keep south around the lee of the islands, and finally to run for a Russian port. Even on this tack, the trip was very dangerous, and for more than three hours Florence, who had never before done any work harder than carrying a spear in the front rank of the chorus, had to toil strenuously helping to pump out the water that poured in unceasingly. When a girl is cold and wet and exhausted beyond expression for several hours, during all of which Death sits grinning over her shoulder, it is not exactly surprising if she wonders whether the game is worth the candle. Nor were matters greatly improved when at last the sloop won to the port of Helsingfors and dropped anchor along with other fishing-smacks in the bay, where her passengers hoped to lie unnoticed while Bill Wilkins, who alone spoke Russian, ran up to St. Petersburg to try to find a steamer whose captain would consent, for a sufficiently large remuneration, to clear for a foreign port and then run out of his course close to Helsingfors, to take the gold on board. Such a captain once found, and signals arranged, Bill would return to Helsingfors to join the others and help take the schooner out to meet the vessel. Tom Wilkins stood the monotony of waiting very well. Used to the loneliness of the plains, his own thoughts sufficed. But Florence had no resources in herself. Accustomed to the clatter of New York, she had been bored even by the quietness of the life on the _Sea Spume_, and this was ten times worse. Day after day she did nothing but twirl her fingers and think about Baron Demidroff and his wonderful tale of Princess Yves Napraxine. Such was her mood on the third afternoon of her imprisonment, when Wilkins, with a fatuity scarcely credible, attempted to cheer her up by making love to her. Florence promptly went into hysterics, and Wilkins had the time of his life in quieting her. That night, after pretending to go to bed, she slipped away, rowing herself ashore in the only small boat belonging to the sloop, and took the night train for St. Petersburg. By the time that Wilkins missed her she was at the office of Baron Demidroff.