"That was many hours ago," Sir Andrew Ffoulkes mused with an inward smile. He too saw visions of meeting his pretty Suzanne very soon, and walking away with her into the land of dreams. "'Twas just six o'clock when Sir Percy 'ad the boat lowered," the sailor rejoined. "And we rowed quick back after we landed 'im. But the _Day-Dream_, she 'ad to wait for the tide. We wurr a long while gettin' into port." Sir Andrew nodded. "You don't know," he said, "if the skipper had any further orders?" "I don't know, sir," the man replied. "But we mun be in readiness always. No one knows when Sir Percy may wish to set sail again." The two young men said nothing more, and presently the sailors touched their forelocks and went away. Lord Tony and Sir Andrew exchanged knowing smiles. They could easily picture to themselves their beloved chief, indefatigable, like a boy let out from school, exhilarated by the deadly danger through which he had once more passed unscathed, clasping his adored wife in his arms and wandering off with her, heaven knew whither, living his life of joy and love and happiness during the brief hours which his own indomitable energy, his reckless courage, accorded to the sentimental side of his complex nature. Far too impatient to wait until the tide allowed the _Day-Dream_ to get into port, he had been rowed ashore in the early dawn, and his beautiful Marguerite--punctual to the assignation conveyed to her by one of those mysterious means of which Percy alone knew the secret--was there ready to receive him, to forget in the shelter of his arms the days of racking anxiety and of cruel terror for her beloved through which she had again and again been forced to pass. Neither Lord Tony nor Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, the Scarlet Pimpernel's most faithful and devoted lieutenants, begrudged their chief these extra hours of bliss, the while they were left in charge of the party so lately rescued from horrible death. They knew that within a day or two--within a few hours, perhaps--Blakeney would tear himself away once more from the clinging embrace of his exquisite wife, from the comfort and luxury of an ideal home, from the adulation of friends, the pleasures of wealth and of fashion, in order mayhap to grovel in the squalor and filth of some outlandish corner of Paris, where he could be in touch with the innocents who suffered--the poor, the terror-stricken victims of the merciless revolution. Within a few hours, mayhap, he would be risking his life again every moment of the day, in order to save some poor hunted fellow-creature--man, woman or child--from death that threatened them at the hands of inhuman monsters who knew neither mercy nor compunction.