Even had her curiosity brought her on deck yesterday to see the rescue of the poor foreigner, she would hardly have recognised in the smoke-begrimed, swollen features of the half-drowned man her old squire and comrade of long ago. Still less would Martin, who had never set eyes on me for four years, discover me. I knew him well enough as I came upon him just then leaning over the bulwark taking an eyeful of Dutch scenery.
He turned round as I approached and nodded.
“Comment vous portez-vous?” said he, using up one of the slender stock of French phrases he had at command.
I replied in French that I did well, and was entirely at monsieur’s service, and madame’s too, for I heard, said I, monsieur did not travel alone.
Martin, who only half-comprehended, looked at me doubtfully, and turned on his heel.
Presently, as I leaned over the port watching the river, I overheard him in conference with the skipper, who spoke imperfect English.
“Convent of the Carmelite Nuns?” said the latter; “that is outside the town some distance. Is mademoiselle to be taken there?”
“Ay; those are my orders.”
“Will she go?”
“She must,” said Martin.