She never listened. She wrapped her cloak about her, and brought her travelling-bag from her saloon.
"Good-by, Madame Hesslein."
She held out her steady hand, the calm light of heroism in her eyes; and madame, trembling and beseeching, saw that there was no remedy, and wept a last "Farewell, Miss Walsingham."
She held out her hand to the little chevalier, who cast an agitated glance from mademoiselle to madame, and swore that it tore his heart-strings to part from either, but that vile fortune had decreed that he was not to see "the hand clasp" and the "happy hour," and kissed her hands in adieu.
And then she offered her cold hand to Davenport, who kept it close, and walked with her to where the little boat lay.
"You must not blame me if I never return," said she, eagerly, as he bent to button her cloak for her. "You know that it is my place to care for St. Udo for his grandmother's sake. You will wait in New York for news of me, won't you?"
Mr. Davenport took her in his arms and handed her into the boat, and swung himself after her.
"Think I'd send you off alone, Miss Margaret?" asked he, with glistening eyes. "By gad, you must think meanly of me."
For the first time her resolution was shaken; she looked at him doubtfully.
"Go back! go back!" she cried, beseechingly. "You must not peril your life for ours."