"No, Mademoiselle. He was picked up in New York harbor, the night we weighed anchor. I have not seen him since until to-day."
"'The night we weighed anchor!' What night was that?"
"Last Monday, Mademoiselle; at about six bells."
"And what day is to-day?"
"Saturday, Mademoiselle; and past four bells now."
"Monday—Saturday!" Agatha looked abstractedly down on Jimmy asleep, while upon her mind crowded the memories of that week. This man who had dragged her and her rescuer from the water, who had made fire and a bed for them, who had got milk for their sustenance, had been almost the last person her conscious eyes had seen in that half-hour of terror on the hillside. Her next memory, after an untold interval, was the rocking of the ship, an old woman who treated her obsequiously, a man who was her servile attendant and yet her jailer—but then, suddenly, as she knelt there, mind and body refused their service. She crumpled down on the soft sand, burying her head in her arms.
Hand came nearer and bent awkwardly over her, as if to coax her confidence.
"It's all right now, Mademoiselle. Whatever you think of me, you can trust me to do my best for you now."
"Oh, I'm not afraid of you now," Agatha moaned in a muffled voice. "Only I'm so puzzled by it all—and so tired!"
"'Twas a fearful strain, Mademoiselle. But I can make you a bed here, so you can sleep."