"Impossible, my dear sir, dearly as I would love to oblige you. The yacht is already under way escaping pursuit. Besides, you may be needed presently to soothe the last hours of a dying sinner, which is even more important than the tying of a matrimonial knot, I take it; so be tranquil, please. No harm shall come to you from this." The clergyman saw that all remonstrances were useless; he must accept the situation. "And you believe that Mr. Mountcastle will die?" he asked in a tone of awe. "Can't say, but hope not. The doctor is dressing his wound now--shoulder--ball went clean through. Poor fellow's having hard luck lately! Stabbed and left for dead on the beach three weeks ago, and barely out of bed when he came to New York to challenge Kayne. Yes, dismal affair, very, but couldn't be helped, you know." The half-crazed Nita had already been told part of the truth by Captain Van Hise. "Donald Kayne was mortally wounded, we fear," was the way he put it about Dorian's opponent. She lay weeping bitterly in the cabin attended by faithful Lizette. The surgeon would not let her see Dorian yet in spite of her prayers. "The wound is not necessarily dangerous, but he is weak from loss of blood, and so agitated that he cannot bear any excitement," he said. But when the wound was dressed, and he was resting easily, he was permitted a few minutes' conversation with Captain Van Hise. Then the jolly soldier said ruefully: "I can't refuse you, Dorian, since the surgeon won't let you talk for yourself, but, by Jupiter, I'd rather face the enemy's guns any day than that girl with this story! What a cheek you must have had to plan such a thing!" "She will forgive me even if she refuses to grant my prayer," answered Dorian, for he knew women better than the gallant captain, who had wooed the goddess of war more assiduously than the goddess of love. So it came to pass that while the yacht _Nita_ skimmed lightly over the moon-lighted waters, Captain Van Hise sat in the cabin with her namesake, floundering through a story that would, he fully believed, enrage her so that she would never, never marry Dorian, and, more than likely, would never even forgive him. "He is so weak and nervous, Miss Farnham, the surgeon won't let him do his own talking, so, as I've been his confidant in the whole affair, he has sent me to tell you--to tell you----" The doughty warrior broke down and mopped his damp brow, murmuring under his breath: "Blamed if I don't wish myself well out of this!" "To tell me----" echoed Nita, with heart-piercing anxiety. And thus encouraged, he returned to the charge: