When the night had fallen again, Mistress Barbara Clerke went timorously upon the deck in search of Bras-de-Fer. His insensibility and brutality in turning away from her when she would have spoken to him in the cabin had tried her to the last extremity. But the thought of the duty she owed herself and him stifled the impulses of her spirit. And her pride, rebellious and insensate that the man who had so frankly sacrificed himself in London should care so little here, impelled her inevitably. Her fear of him was short-lived. In spite of all she knew to his discredit and the bloody guise in which she had found him, that look of humiliation and distress which she had brought into his face a night so long ago remained ineffaceably written upon her memory. It spoke better than all the proofs she had discovered of the wrong that had been done him. She found him, by the light of a lantern, directing the repair of a gun-carriage upon the poop. She addressed him timidly. “Monsieur--er--Bras-de-Fer--” she began. He raised his head and turned abruptly towards her, and the sense of security from rebuke she had counted upon, in the presence of the men, fled away at the sight of his frowning countenance. “What are you doing here, madame?” he said, harshly. “The deck is no place for you. Go below at once or--” But with never a glance at the grinning fellows at her elbow, she looked him steadily in the eyes as she replied, with a will and spirit which surprised even herself: “I shall not, monsieur.” The voice was low and even. But the small hands were clenched, her head was tossed a little upon one side, and every line of her lithe body, which swung rhythmically to the motion of the sliding deck, spoke of invincible courage and determination. Bras-de-Fer scowled darkly a moment, and even took a step in her direction, but she stood undaunted. With an assumption of carelessness he waved his hands, and presently they were alone. “I thank you for that condescension,” she said at last. “Speak your will quickly, madame. I am in a press of business.” “You must hear me to the end, monsieur. No matter what--” “_Ma foi_, madame,” he sneered. “Is it you who command the ship or I? If there is aught you require, say on. If not, you will go below at once.” “You must hear me, monsieur.” “Madame”--he scowled and spoke with a studied brutality--“is it not enough that I have done your will once? I am taking you to safety. Try me not too far or--you may find reason to regret your presumption.” And as she shrank a little away from him: “What have you to expect from me? By what right do you seek me or ask me any favor?” “By the right of a gentle birth. If not by that, by the right of a decent humanity.” He laughed with an assumption of coarseness which sat strangely upon him.