“I have a heritage, it appears, in France,” he went on, “but know nothing of it, yet. For the weather has been bad and our voyage a stormy one. I was to have been told during the journey, but we had no time for that. And I know no more than you, mademoiselle.” Juliette had changed colour, and her cheeks, which were usually of a most delicate pink, were suddenly quite white. She did not touch upon the knowledge to which he referred, but went past it to its object. “You do not speak like an Englishman,” she said. “For I know one or two. One came to the school at Saintes. He was a famous English prelate, and he had the manner--well, of a tree. And when he spoke, it was what one would expect of a tree, if it suddenly had speech. But you--you are not like that.” Loo Barebone laughed with an easy gaiety, which seemed infectious, though Marie did not join in it, but stood scowling in the doorway. “Yes,” he said, “you have described them exactly. I know a hundred who are like great trees. Many are so, but they are kind and still like trees--the English, when you know them, mademoiselle.” “They?” she said, with her prettily arched eyebrows raised high. “We, I mean,” he answered, quickly, taking her meaning in a flash. “I almost forgot that I was an Englishman. It is my heritage, perhaps, that makes me forget--or yourself. It is so easy and natural to consider one's self a Frenchman--and so pleasant.” Marie shuffled with her feet and made a movement of impatience, as if to remind them that they were still far from the business in hand and were merely talking of themselves, which is the beginning of all things--or may be the beginning of the inevitable end. “But I forgot,” said Barebone, at once. “And it is getting late. Your father has had a slight misfortune. He has sprained his ankle. He is on board my ship, the ship of which I am--I have been--an officer, lying at anchor in the river near here, off the village of Mortagne. I came from Mortagne at your father's request, with certain messages, for yourself, mademoiselle, and for Marie--if Madame is Marie.” “Yes,” replied the grim voice in the doorway. “Madame is Marie.” Loo had turned toward her. It seemed his happy fate to be able to disarm antagonism at the first pass. He looked at Marie and smiled; and slowly, unwillingly, her grim face relaxed. “Well,” he said, “you are not to expect Monsieur le Marquis to-night, nor yet, for some time to come. For he will go on to Bordeaux, where he can obtain skilled treatment for his injured ankle, and remain there until he can put his foot to the ground. He is comfortable enough on board the ship, which will proceed up the river to-morrow morning to Bordeaux. Monsieur le Marquis also told me to set your mind at rest on another point. He was to have brought with him a guest--” Loo paused and bowed to Marie, with a gay grace.