Greatly to my relief, despite the plodding pace of our beasts, we were first to reach the boat. I had time to overhaul the craft and say farewell to my good German friend. As he drove off, gruff-voiced but beaming, the well-remembered cherry-wood carriage came churning through the mire. The señor had retained the right to use it for this last service.
I was at the door, with my hand on the knob, as the driver swung around. The señor stepped out, with a sonorous, "Buenos dias, doctor!" For a fraction of a moment he seemed about to turn. Then he stepped aside, and left my way clear.
My lady drew out an arm from the depths of her great ermine muff. Her plump, bare little hand lay in my brown fingers like a snowy jasmine bloom. There was mockery in the depths of her eyes, but the scarlet lips arched in a not unkindly smile.
"Buenos dias, señor!" she greeted me.
"It is truly a good day which brings me sight again of Señorita Vallois," I replied. "May this clear sky prove true augury of the voyage we are to share!"
"May it prove true augury of clear sunshine to follow! These weeping skies of England and your Republic! I long for a week of dry weather." She shivered in her single-sleeved French cloak, whose white floss net and tassels added little to the warmth of her gauzy muslins. As for her head, even her light mantilla would have been more suitable to the weather than the jaunty cap of velvet and tigerskin.
"You are cold!" I said. "There is a fire aboard our craft."
I drew her hand beneath my arm and started to lead her down the wharf as a swarthy, hard-featured woman stepped from the carriage. The señorita spoke a few words in Spanish, and the woman turned to help the driver lift down the chests and boxes from behind, under the direction of Señor Vallois.
Handing the señorita down into the boat's stern, I led her into the living-room, or kitchen, and laid more fagots upon the fire which I had kindled. In another moment I had her seated before the blaze, with a blanket about her graceful shoulders. As I knelt to place a stool for her little feet, she gazed down with the velvety eyes which had looked out upon me from the coach window in Washington.
"Maria purisima!" she murmured. "There are tales of gallant knights—"