“No, no, monsieur. It is too late. I am too old a bird. Would ye clip the eagle’s wings? Would ye pen the old falcon in a gilded humming-bird cage? I’ve chosen to fly broadly, and broadly I’ll fly till some stray bullet ends my flapping. And now make ready, madame. A warm cloak against the night air, a pillow—for boat-thwarts are none too soft; and when ye are ready I shall be at the door.” And he vanished, his bullet head, with its round wool cap, scraping at the door-jamb as he passed.
When he had gone, Barbara sank upon the bench at the table. Had it not been for the strong arms of Bras-de-Fer she must have fallen to the deck. Tired nature, overwrought nerves, rebellious, refused to obey.
“But a little while, Barbara, dear, and we will be alone. Courage, brave one! Courage! We will soon gain the shore. Then, a ship—and—life!”
“Ah, monsieur, I am weary. So weary that I fear for this journey in the open boat. God grant we may reach its ending.” Her head fell forward upon his breast and she breathed heavily as one in a deep sleep.
He laid her gently so that her arms rested upon the table. Then he quickly prepared a package of articles which would be most necessary for her. Jewels there were and a packet of his own money. He found a flask of eau-de-vie, and when he had aroused her he gently forced her to drink a half-tumbler of it mixed with water.
Presently Jacquard and Barthier came with the papers for him to sign. When this was done they all went upon the deck. The Spanish prize lay at a distance of several cables’ lengths, and, from a movement among the spars, was getting under way in charge of the prize crew. Alongside, at the starboard gangway, rode the pinnace. It looked so small, so masterless and helpless, by the side of the larger vessels in that infinity of ocean, that Mistress Barbara shivered as she looked down into it. But one glance around the decks to where the prostrate figures had lain reconciled her to her lot.
Between Bras-de-Fer and Jacquard there was but one hearty hand-shake. The very lack of more effusive demonstration between them meant more than many words could have done. And as monsieur passed over the gangway and down into the vessel there was little in his demeanor to show the sting of his defeat at the hands of these devils of the sea, whom he had sought, and unsuccessfully, to bring into the domain of a proper humanity. A scornful laugh broke from among the men as he disappeared over the side, and Yan Gratz, waving a pistol, piped obscene threats and criticism from the quarter-deck. But presently, when Mistress Barbara had been slung over the side in a whip from the main-yard, Jacquard disappeared from the rail, and the falsetto of the Dutchman was no longer heard.
The mast in the pinnace had been stepped, and the sail, strong and serviceable, but none too large, flapped impatiently in the breeze. And so when Barbara was seated, white and dark-eyed, showing with a painful effort a last haughty disdain to the rascals at the portholes and bulwarks, Bras-de-Fer shipped his tiller and hauled his sheet aft to the wind. The little vessel bounced in a sprightly, joyous fashion, the brown sail bulged stanchly, and in a moment a patch of green water, ever growing wider, flashed and trembled between the pinnace and the Saucy Sally. Among the row of dark heads along the rail Bras-de-Fer looked for only one, and to him he presently turned and raised his hat in salute. Jacquard replied; and then his long arms went flying and his hoarse voice cried aloud the orders to set the vessel upon her course. Presently the yards flew around, the vessel squared away, and the Saucy Sally was but a memory. A vessel nameless, without identity, was sailing away from them upon the sea, and they were alone.
Barbara looked no more. She had seated herself upon the gratings at the bottom of the craft, her arms resting upon the stern thwart. But now that all immediate danger had passed and she sat safe and at peace, the wonderful spirit and courage to which she had nerved herself in a moment failed her. Her head fell forward upon her arms and she sank inert and prone at the feet of the Frenchman. Scarce realizing what had happened, yet fearful that some dreadful fate had intervened to take his love from him, he dropped the tiller and fell upon his knees by her side, his mind shaken by the agony of the moment; for her face had taken a kind of waxen, leaden color more terrifying than mere pallor, and the lips, save for a faint-blue tinge, became under his very eyes of the same deathly hue. He dashed handful after handful of the sea-water into her face and rubbed her chill arms and hands. He poured a draught of the rum between her cold lips. But she moved not. Beseech her as he might, there was no response to his petitions. He sought the pulse; he could feel nothing. The breath had ceased. Oh, God! Had the cup of happiness been placed at their lips only to sip? Was it to be poured out before his very eyes? He cried aloud in his agony and raised the face to his own, kissing it again and again, as if by the warmth of his own passion he could awaken it to life.
“My love! my love!” he cried. “Come back to me! Come back to me again! Open thine eyes! Breathe but my name! Come back to me, my love!”