In the first flood of his astonishment the Frenchman lost countenance and fell back upon the entrance of the cabin. He forgot the efficiency of his disguise. In London he had worn the mustachio, smooth chin, and perruque; and the deft touches of poor Vigot had given him a name for a beau which no art of the tailor alone could have bestowed. All of these were lacking in the rough garments that he wore. When last my lady had seen him it had been in the laces, orders, and all the accouterments of a man of fashion, as befitted his station. Now the deep shadows which the fog of battle had painted under his brows and eyes served a purpose as effectual as the growth of his hair and beard. For no sign passed the lady’s features, though she looked fair at him. A momentary wonder there was, as the Frenchman paused; then a mute and pallid supplication. Two Spanish women fell heavily upon their knees before him, demeaning themselves in every conceivable manner for a look or a word that would lull their apprehension and alarm. It was not until then that Cornbury saw Mistress Clerke. She looked at him blankly; but he, swearing audibly, fled past Bras-de-Fer to the door. “Bedad!” he muttered--“the lady in the play!” and vanished into the passage. Cast upon himself, Bras-de-Fer halted and stammered again. He was daunted by that cold, gray eye, and discovered an inquietude and trepidation greater than he had felt in the presence of a company of pikemen. He wiped his sword and thrust it into its scabbard with something of an air of the blusterer, fumbled at the collar at his throat, and with a gesture tossed back the curls from his brow, finally taking refuge in the women at his knees from that chill glance which seemed to read and reproach him. Then, learning that his identity was still unrevealed, he plucked up courage, and, releasing himself, coldly but with a certain gallantry bowed to the gray-haired Spanish lady who had been the most timorous in her embraces. “Your fear, señora, pays neither me nor my ship a compliment,” he said, coolly. “Your _San Isidro_ is of a nation that of late has proved itself the enemy of my King upon the sea. I have taken her in honorable battle, and--” Here Jacquard, leering wickedly, the personification of the very thing the women most feared, with Yan Gratz and a dozen pikes, came rushing in at the door, rendering at naught his amiable intentions, for the women fell to screaming again, and Mistress Clerke raised her pistolet to her breast, it seemed, in the very act of firing. With a hoarse cry Bras-de-Fer quelled the turmoil and sent Jacquard and the men growling back upon the deck; but it was some moments before the qualms of the women were relieved and quiet and order brought out of the tumult.