"And--and the pledge which I made you then?" "I recall no pledge, dear lady." She gave him a wide, deep look. "I bound myself to answer any question you should wish to ask--if you should save my father from Mr. Baggin. Yesterday, that came to pass. During a lucid interval in the night, my father"--her voice quivered on the word--"spoke of you, but brokenly, and I did not completely understand until you set the guard about his door." The count made as if to speak, but she raised a protesting hand. "So now you have fulfilled your pledge to me, and I"--she lifted her head proudly--"stand ready to redeem mine." He looked at her strangely. "You would marry me?" "Yes." Her lips articulated the word with difficulty. Her eyes were upon her hands, and her hands plaited nervously a fold of her white gown. "Doris!" He laid a hand over the slim white fingers. She shrank back, and then suffered her hand to lie in his, passively. "Look up, child," he urged gently. "Let me see your eyes." She closed them tightly. A warm tear splashed upon his hand. Count Poltavo was very white, but he smiled. "Do you weep," he said softly, "because you have given yourself to me? Or because you do not love me?" The tears fell faster. He took both her hands. "Dear lady," he said, "let our hearts speak only true words to-day. You have already chosen a mate--is it not true?" She sat mute, but a burning flush betrayed her. The count rose suddenly to his feet, and made his way blindly to the rail. When he returned, a few moments later, his face was tranquil and serene. "I have put my question," he said lightly, "and you have answered it--with a blush! Let us drop the poor unfortunate subject into oblivion." She took a long deep breath, as if throwing off the weight of a weary burden. "I am free?" she whispered. He laughed somewhat harshly. "As free as a bird," he retorted, "to fly whither you will." She did not answer, but unthreaded the ring, with trembling fingers, and handed it to him without a word. He drew back, shaking his head. "Will you honour me by keeping it as a memento of your--ah!--freedom? To think upon, in happier days?" "I will keep it," she said softly, "in memory of a man whom I could wish to love!" A silence fell between them, which the girl presently broke. "You also had something to tell me?" she said. He roused himself. "It is true--I had almost forgot!" He stopped and looked about them, as if to reassure himself that they were quite alone. "Your father is very ill," he began, "too ill to receive proper attention aboard this ship. I have decided, therefore,"--he lowered his voice to a whisper,--"to transfer him, as soon as he is able, to the first steamer we meet. It can be arranged, quite simply, with assumed names. You will take him to some quiet place, and, when he is quite restored, return with him to America." The light of a great hope shone in her eyes.