Suddenly I gave a low exclamation; the water, which had fled from us as we moved, seeming glad to pass us by and rush again on its race undisturbed, stood still. From the swill came quiet, out of the shimmer a mirror disentangled itself, and lay there on the sea, smooth and bright. But it grew dull in an instant; I heard the sails flap, but saw them no more. A dense white vapour settled on us, the length of my arm bounded my sight, all movement ceased, and we lay on the water, inert and idle. I leant beside the gunwale, feeling the fog moist on my face, seeing in its baffling folds a type of the toils that bound and fettered me. Now voices rose round me, and again fell; the crew questioned, the captain urged; I heard Colbert's voice as he hurried on deck. The sufficient answer was all around us; where the mist was there could be no wind; in grumbling the voices died away. The rest of what passed seems even now a strange dream that I can hardly follow, whose issue alone I know, which I can recover only dimly and vaguely in my memory. I was there in the stern, leaning over, listening to the soft sound of the sea as Thomas Lie's boat rolled lazily from side to side and the water murmured gently under the gentle stroke. Then came voices again just by my shoulder. I did not move. I knew the tones that spoke, the persuasive commanding tones hard to resist, apt to compel. Slowly I turned myself round; the speakers must be within eight or ten feet of me, but I could not see them. Still they came nearer. Then I heard the sound of a sob, and at it sprang to rigidity, poised on ready feet, with my hand on the hilt of my sword. "You're weary now," said the smooth strong voice. "We will talk again in the morning. From my heart I grieve to have distressed you. Come, we'll find the gentleman whom you desire to speak with, and I'll trouble you no more. Indeed I count myself fortunate in having asked my good brother for one whose company is agreeable to you. For your sake, your friend shall be mine. Come, I'll take you to him, and then leave you." Barbara's sobs ceased; I did not wonder that his persuasions won her to repose and almost to trust. It seemed that the mist grew a little less thick; I saw their figures. Knowing that at the same moment I must myself be seen, I spoke on the instant. "I am here, at Mistress Quinton's service." M. de Perrencourt (to call him still by his chosen name) came forward and groped his way to my arm, whispering in French, "All is easy. Be gentle with her. Why, she turns to you of her own accord! All will go smoothly." "You may be sure of it, sir," I said. "Will you leave her with me?" "Yes," he answered. "I can trust you, can't I?" "I may be trusted to death," I answered, smiling behind the mist's kind screen.