“My darling,” he said, “I cannot bear it. I will take you with me. Come. What does it matter about honour or disgrace? What have we to do with right or wrong? Will you come, Una?”
“Her eyes dropped before his gaze. Her hands clasped and unclasped, the fingers of them sliding close-pressed against each other. She trembled.
“If it is wrong——,” she whispered. “Oh, Neal, I do not understand, but what you think wrong is wrong for me, too. I will not do what you say is wrong. But, oh! come back to me, come back to me soon. I cannot bear to wait long for you.”
All the joy was gone from her. Forgetful of the strangers who stood round her, she covered her face with her hands and wept bitterly.
Maurice’s voice reached them from the boat.
“Be quick, Neal. I must cast off and let you get under way. They’ve got the old salmon cobble out, and they’re coming after us. Captain Twinely must have managed to tear himself away from the Comtesse. They are pulling six oars, and the cobble is full of men. Be quick.”
Una stopped crying on the instant. She cast a terrified glance at the approaching boat. Then she ran across the deck to Captain Getty. She seized his hand, and fell on her knees before him.
“Keep him safe, Captain Getty. Keep him safe. The soldiers, the yeomen, are after him. Do not give him up to them. They will hang him if they get him. Keep him safe. Do not let them take him.”
“Young lady, Miss,” said Captain Getty, “stand up and dry your eyes. Your sweetheart’s safe while he stands on my deck. Safe from them. For tempests and fire and the perils of the deep, and the act of God”—he lifted his cap from his head—“I can’t swear, but as for darned British soldiers of any kind—such scum set no foot on the deck of Captain Hercules Getty’s brig—the Saratoga. You see that rag there, young lady, that rag flying from the gaff of the spanker, it’s not much to look at, maybe, not up to the high-toned level of the crosses and the lions that spread themselves and ramp about on other flags, but I guess a man’s free when that flies over him. You take my word for it, Miss—the word of Captain Hercules Getty—the Britisher will knuckle under to that rag. He’s seen the stars and stripes before now, and he knows he’s just got to slip his tail in between his hind legs and scoot, scoot tarnation quick from the place where that rag flutters on the breeze.”