And so it came to pass that on the following Sunday Arithelli found herself sitting on the deck of a yacht anchored far out in the harbour, with the shores of Barcelona only a faint outline in the distance.
They had come aboard the previous day.
Emile had made her no explanations beyond saying that he was going to take her for a sea trip, and after her custom she had asked no questions.
The yacht, which was an uncanny looking craft, painted black and called "The Witch," she knew by reputation, and had often seen it slipping into the harbour after dusk. It was the property of two Russian aristocrats, friends of Emile's, who helped the Cause by conveying bombs and infernal machines, and taking off such members of the band as had suddenly found Spain an undesirable residence.
Arithelli was not in the least interested in either of the men, the dark, handsome, saturnine Vladimir, or the fair-haired, pretty, effeminate youth to whom he was comrade and hero.
But she liked their smartness and well-groomed air, and their spotless clothes, after Emile and his dirty nails and slovenly habits, and she appreciated to the full the surrounding refinement and comfort, and enjoyed the daintily served meals, the shining glass and silver and the deft, silent waiting of the sailors.
She had been given a luxurious cabin which seemed a paradise after her dirty, carpetless bedroom, and in it she could laze and lounge in peace without the eternal practising and rehearsals and running errands that her soul loathed.
The hot sun glared down upon her, as she sat watching the racing waves.
She was a fantastic, slim, bizarre figure with her coppery hair, over which a lace scarf was tied, and high-heeled slippers on her beautiful slender feet.
In her ears dangled huge turquoises, showing vividly against the white skin that was coated thickly with scented powder.