Isobel, stupefied by some haunting knowledge which appeared to have a vague connection with the misfortunes of the _Kansas_, yielded to Elsie’s gentle compulsion, and endeavored to close her eyes. All was quiet in the cabin, save for the sufferer’s labored breathing, and an occasional sob, while her wondering nurse smoothed her luxuriant hair, and whispered those meaningless little phrases which have such magic influence on the distracted nerves of woman-kind. There was hardly a sound on the ship, beyond an unexplained creaking of pulleys, which soon ceased. Mrs. Somerville had gone, in response to Elsie’s mute appeal. Somehow, from a piecing together of hints and half phrases, the girl feared a painful disclosure as the outcome of Isobel’s hysteria. She was glad it had been averted. If there were hidden scandals in her friend’s life in Chile, she prayed they might remain at rest. She had not forgotten Christobal’s guarded words. He probably knew far more than he chose to tell of the “summer hotel attachment” between Isobel and Ventana at which he had hinted. But, even crediting that passing folly with a serious aspect, why should the daughter of the richest merchant in Valparaiso fall prostrate at the mere mention of the name of a disreputable loafer like José the Winebag? To state the fact was to refute it. Elsie dismissed the idea as preposterous. It was clear enough that Isobel’s break-down arose from some other cause; perhaps the relaxed tension of existence on board the _Kansas_, after the hardships borne on the island, supplied a simple explanation. Through the open port she heard a man walk rapidly along the deck, and halt outside the door. She half rose from her knees to answer the expected knock, thinking that Mrs. Somerville had sent a steward to ascertain if Miss Baring needed anything. But the newcomer evidently changed his mind, and turned back. Then came Courtenay’s voice, low but compelling: “One moment, M’sieu’ de Poincilit. A word with you.” The French Count! During the whirl of the previous night, and by reason of the abiding joy of her morning’s reverie, she had failed to miss the dapper Frenchman. Once, indeed, she had mentioned him to Isobel, who offered a brief surmise that he might be ill, and keeping to his cabin. Yet, here he was on deck, and possibly on the point of seeking an interview with the lady to whom he had paid such close attention during the early days of the voyage. Perhaps Mrs. Somerville had told him of the fainting fit, and he was about to make a friendly inquiry when the captain accosted him. But Elsie’s ears, tuned to fine precision where her lover’s utterances were concerned, had caught the note of contemptuous command, and she was even more surprised by the Count’s flurried answer in French: “Another time, M’sieu’. I pray you pardon me now. I find I am not strong enough yet to venture on deck.”