“You _must_ return,” she broke in, wildly. “It is a sacred duty. If not for yourself, for the blood that runs in our veins.” The phrase sang sweet in his ears. But he gave no sign. “Blood is thicker than water, but it seeks its level as surely. I have made my bed; I shall sleep no less soundly because it is a rough one.” She struggled to contain the violence of her emotion. “No, no, it cannot be, it must not be. You will learn how I have striven for you. You cannot refuse. It would be cruel, inhuman, monstrous!” “Mistress Clerke has much to learn of the inhumanities,” he said. And then, with cool composure, “What power availed to convince her, where Monsieur Mornay was so unfortunate?” “You are cruel, cruel. What had you to expect of me? What had you done in London to merit my favor? Why should I have believed in one of whom I knew nothing--nothing but presumption and indignity? How should I have known?” “Madame’s advisers--” “Do not speak of them,” she interrupted. “It is past. The proofs were brought me. That is all. Why need you know more?” “Captain Ferrers?” he said, insinuatingly. “Yes, he!” She drew herself to her full height, and he could not fail to mark the lofty look of scorn that curved her lips and brow. “All London learned of the story of your escape. My agents were told that the vessel upon which you had fled was in the American trade. And so I sought service where I might best reach you. Thank God, my quest has not been in vain!” “Madame sought service?” he said, in a wonder which vied with his cold assumption of apathy. “I sought service with the Señorita de Batteville, monsieur,” she continued, with a proud lift of the chin, “in the capacity of waiting-woman and duenna.” The words fell with cruel import upon his ears. He could hardly believe that he had heard aright. “You serve--?” he stammered. “Have I not said that every livre of my fortune--” “Yes. But, madame--to serve!--you!--” “Is it so strange? Would you have me take that which is not mine? No, monsieur, I am no thief.” Bras-de-Fer had turned resolutely towards the bulwarks with a mind more turbulent even than the seething waters below him. In the turmoil of his emotions he knew not which way to turn, what to say or what to do. The plan that he had marked for himself was becoming every moment less and less distinct. It was with an effort that he turned towards her, his resolution giving him an implacability he was far from feeling. “Madame, your probity does you credit. Were your judgment as unerring as your honesty, I had not left London. As it is, I’ve no mind to return.” “Monsieur,” she faltered--“monsieur--” “If you please, madame. I would have you below. ’Tis a rough crew, and I’ll not answer for them--” “But you will tell me--” “Madame, you’ve purged your conscience. There your duty ends. At Port Royal it shall be arranged that you are sent to Porto Bello. As for me, my will is made.”