"Good! Excellent! I shall write my instructions with care. They will be full; but much must be left to you and the master."
"Captain Biddle, I suppose."
"Yes. A resolute old sea-dog, but who will obey because I order it. Good night. At nine—I must know at nine."
De Courval lost no time. His mother was alone, as usual avoiding the Saturday visitors.
"Oh," he said to himself as he stood outside of her door, "you must let me go."
He paused before he knocked. Gratitude, interest, awakened eagerness for perilous adventure, called him to this voyage. He had then, as on later occasions one source of indecision—the mother. If she said no, he must stay; but would she? He knocked gently, and in a moment was standing at her side.
She set aside her embroidery-frame. "What is wrong?" she said. "I do not want to hear any more evil news—or at least, no details. Who else is dead of those we cared for?"
"No one, mother. Mr. Wynne wishes me to sail for him at dawn to-morrow for San Domingo. I may be in time to save him much money."
"Well," she said coldly, "what else?" Her face, always grave, became stern. "And so, to save a trader's money, I am to be left alone."
"Mother, it seems hard for you to understand these people; and there is another side to it. I have been treated with kindness for which there seems to me small reason. Twice my wages have been raised, and this offer is a compliment, as well as a chance to oblige a man I like."