“You alone!”
“I can only crave your pity.”
He peered around at the dingy surroundings. “I am bereaved, madame. This cabin is not the San Isidro. ’Twere better, more cleanly. I am sorry. I had come to order it to your comfort. See. I have brought your bedding and belongings from the San Isidro. In a moment, if you will permit, I can do very much to better your condition.”
A spark of gratitude at this evidence of his kindly disposition gleamed in her eyes a moment and she signed an acquiescence. The Frenchman conducted her to the half-deck, while two negroes set busily about the place, removing his and Cornbury’s effects and making it sweet and clean for its gentle tenant.
The Frenchman would have left her, but Mistress Barbara stopped him at the cabin door.
“I cannot thank you, monsieur. To do so pays no jot of my great obligation, which every moment becomes greater.”
He bowed and would have passed out. “You owe me nothing but silence, madame,” he said, coldly.
“And that I cannot pay,” she cried. “Oh, why will you not listen to me, monsieur? Have you no kindness?”
“I have done what small service I could, madame. If I owe you more—”
She clenched her small hands together, as though in pain. “Ah, you do not understand. Why will you not see? It is not that. I wish you to do me justice.”