The wretch stood cowering.
"Most noble Sieur," he faltered, "I have fled from France to lead a new life in a new world."
"Silence, liar!" thundered De Roberval. "You have fled from France to escape death for the murder of Paul d'Auban. You see I know your character. But it has occurred to me," he went on, with a grim smile, "that I shall need an executioner in my colony before many months, and you would probably answer my purpose. Go!" he added, his brow contracting with sudden anger, "leave my sight, and look that you do not attempt any of your schemes while you are on board this vessel. As long as you do as I command you, you need fear nothing; but disobey me, and I will wind a devil's cravat round your neck, and be doing God a service by sending you from His blessed earth."
The astonished criminal slunk from the room. As he ascended the gangway he reflected to himself that in leaving his pursuers in La Rochelle he seemed to have leaped from the frying-pan into the fire. But he saw his way clearly before him. He would in the meantime obey Roberval's lightest whim; and when an opportunity presented itself he would so ingratiate himself into the good opinion of the nobleman as to be made his confidant. He had unlimited confidence in his own powers, and an ambition which knew no bounds. Fate seemed to favour him. Already he had overheard an interview which had put him in possession of some of Roberval's most intimate affairs. He would bide his time, and wait for a chance to make use of his knowledge.
Some days passed without event. Claude kept carefully to the letter of his promise, and avoided as much as possible the society of the two girls. He shared the quarters of an old school-friend, Paul d'Auxhillon, and rarely went on deck when it was at all probable that the women would be there.
They had been steering westward over moderately calm seas for nearly a week, when, on a glorious moonlight night, the breeze stiffened, and the little vessel began to pitch on the rising waves. The cabin was close at all times, but at night Claude nearly always spent most of his time on deck. On this particular night he had no desire for sleep, and midnight found him still pacing to and fro, watching the glitter of the moonlight on the dancing waters.
Just about twelve o'clock Marguerite, oppressed by the close air between decks, and rendered dizzy by the slight pitching of the vessel, stole softly from her cabin, without disturbing Marie, and sought the open air. She had not been long on deck before she became aware of the presence of a man who was not one of the common sailors. For a moment she thought the motionless figure with its back towards her was her uncle; but a second glance told her it was De Pontbriand. She moved noiselessly towards him, as he stood gazing out on the broad moonlit expanse, his thoughts occupied with the bitter fate that held him so near his love, and yet so far apart from her, and, gently touching his shoulder, she breathed his name.
He turned: their lips met, and so great was the revulsion of feeling that for a few moments neither could speak. But they were standing where they might have been observed either by the helmsman or the man on the lookout, and Claude presently drew her to the shadow of the forecastle. Here they were sheltered from view, and could give themselves up to the rapture of being together once more. Neither noticed a dark figure crouched on the deck behind a spar not three feet away from them. It was Gaillon. He had seen Marguerite pass up the gangway, and knowing that Claude was on deck had followed, panther-like, to watch her movements. His quick intelligence at once divined that if a meeting between the lovers had been planned, they would probably seek the shadow afforded by the forecastle; and in the few moments when their attention was wholly absorbed in each other he had noiselessly crawled across the deck, and concealed himself where he could overhear their every word.
Very little was said, but not a syllable escaped him. Marguerite, for the first time, allowed Claude to say hard things about her uncle. But even yet she tried to find excuses for him.
"O Claude," she said, "he is mad! I have watched him day by day, and would not believe it. But his violent ambition, and the thwarting to which it has been subjected, have unhinged his mind. I am hoping that the active life he must necessarily lead in Canada will restore his reason. But mad he is now, and for my sake bear with him and humour him. He has been cruel to us, unkind to me, brutal to you, but he is not the uncle I once knew and loved. Surely his old nature will return when we are settled in our new home, and he will consent to our marriage."