Fury passed and weakness followed. She did not know what time of day it was, but she was aware that it had been long since she had eaten. In the cabin she found a tray set with food and coffee which the stewardess insisted upon serving her. She sank into an armchair, refusing to eat, but the woman persisted and the odor of the coffee was tempting. It was luncheon, she found, and remembered that she had had no appetite for dinner at Lady Heathcote’s and that it must be quite twenty-four hours since she had broken bread. The coffee gave her courage, and in spite of herself she found that she was eating heartily with a genuine relish. She was a good sailor and the nausea, which she now knew was the effect of the drug, had passed. The stewardess stood beside her and to the other questions Doris put to her answered politely, but volunteered nothing further than she had already told. In spite of the woman’s care and attention the girl could not get rid of the idea that the stewardess had been sent as a guardian as well as a maid. She was a prisoner of John Rizzio, of Germany, whither he was bringing her as fast as the yacht could take them. Finding at last that her attempts to extract information from her stolid servitress were fruitless, and feeling strengthened by the food she had taken, she got up and told the woman that she was going on deck, asking that Mr. Rizzio be informed that she would see him. As she emerged upon deck the crisp wintry air sent the color slowly into her pallid cheeks. The yacht was bowling along with the wind and sea quartering and the foam-crests leaped alongside, sending an occasional spurt of spray into the air, where the wind caught it and blew it across the decks in a feathery mist of rainbows. The sunlight glinted on polished wood and brasswork and at the stern caught in the cross of St. George where the flag of England flapped in the breeze. The flag of England sheltering John Rizzio! She scanned the horizon anxiously. Perhaps an English cruiser or destroyer might come to whom she might be able to tell the real character of the owner of the vessel. But there was no vessel in sight. A sailor passed her and touched his cap. The deference encouraged her. It reminded her that this was the same deck upon which she had stood when John Rizzio was suing for her hand, an honorable host when she had been an honored guest. A loud crackling came to her ears from the wireless room. He was there, already in communication with his employers in Germany. Even now, with Cyril’s words still ringing in her ears, she found it difficult to believe that John Rizzio was England’s enemy; and the price of his treachery a picture, “The Descent from the Cross”! What a mockery that a man who would stoop to such dishonor could make its price a picture which typified the conquest of sublime virtue even over death!