“Is it so strange? Would you have me take that which is not mine? No, monsieur, I am no thief.”
Bras-de-Fer had turned resolutely towards the bulwarks with a mind more turbulent even than the seething waters below him. In the turmoil of his emotions he knew not which way to turn, what to say or what to do. The plan that he had marked for himself was becoming every moment less and less distinct.
It was with an effort that he turned towards her, his resolution giving him an implacability he was far from feeling.
“Madame, your probity does you credit. Were your judgment as unerring as your honesty, I had not left London. As it is, I’ve no mind to return.”
“Monsieur,” she faltered—“monsieur—”
“If you please, madame. I would have you below. ’Tis a rough crew, and I’ll not answer for them—”
“But you will tell me—”
“Madame, you’ve purged your conscience. There your duty ends. At Port Royal it shall be arranged that you are sent to Porto Bello. As for me, my will is made.”
“Ah, you are malignant,” she cried, with a flash of spirit, his cold, sinister eye sinking and piercing deep into her heart like cold steel. “You are not he whom I have sought. He was frank, generous, kind. A strange, bitter, monstrous creature has grown in his guise.” Her voice trembled and broke as she moved to the hatchway.