“I represent the law,” cried Ferrers, and his voice seemed dimmer in the distance. “These men are officers of the King, to arrest—” The remainder of the sentence was caught in the winds and blown away.
The black-bearded man slapped his leg. “The law! The law!” he shouted. Then he made a trumpet of his hands to make his meaning clear, and roared, “Go to ’ell!” He clapped his hand to his thigh and laughed immoderately.
Monsieur Mornay, who had been looking aft over the bulwarks, saw the figure of Ferrers stand up in the stern-sheets and shake his fist at the vessel. Then the boat pulled around to the half-sunken craft which the fugitives had abandoned. All in dark shadow they saw Quinn pulled out of the water by the constables, and then the figures leaned over again and lifted something out of the water and passed it to the figure in the stern.
The Frenchman took Cornbury wildly by the arm.
“God, God!” he cried. “My doublet! The papers were in my doublet!” He put a hand upon the rail and would have jumped into the water if Cornbury had not seized him and held him until the fit was past.
[CHAPTER VII]
BARBARA
After Monsieur Mornay’s coach had rumbled away, Mistress Barbara excused herself to Captain Ferrers and threw herself upon her couch in poignant distress and indecision. Why she had hated this Monsieur Mornay so she could not for her life have told herself. Perhaps it was that she had begun by hating him. But now, when he had killed her friend and counsellor and had used violent means to approach and coerce her—now when she had every right and reason for hating him, she made the sudden discovery that she did not. The shock of it came over her like the sight of her disordered countenance in the mirror. The instinct and habit of defense, amplified by a nameless apprehension in the presence of the man, had excited her imagination so that she had been willing to believe anything of him in order to justify her conscience for her cruelty. But now that he was gone—in all probability to the gallows—and she was no longer harassed by the thought of his presence, she underwent a strange revulsion of feeling. She knew it was not pity she felt for him. It would be hard, she thought, to speak of pity and Monsieur Mornay in the same breath. It was something else—something that put her pride at odds with her conscience, her mind at odds with her heart. She lay upon the couch dry-eyed, clasping and unclasping her hands. What was he to her that she should give him the high dignity of a thought? Why should the coming or the going of such a man as he—scapegrace, gambler, duelist, and now fugitive from justice—make the difference of a jot to a woman who had the proudest in England at her feet? Fugitive from justice! Ah, God! Why were men such fools? Here was a brave man, scapegrace and gambler if you like, but gallant sailor, soldier, and chevalier of France, a favorite of fortune, who, through that law of nature by which men rise or sink to their own level, had achieved a position in which he consorted with kings, dukes, and princes of the realm, and boasted of a king for an intimate. In a moment he had rendered at naught the struggles of years—had tossed aside, as one would discard a worn-out hat or glove, all chances of future preferment in France and England—all for a foolish whim, for a pair of silly gray eyes. She hid her face in her arms. Fools! all fools!