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Page 61
She threw a handful of biscuit to the gulls, and there was fighting and
screaming almost in touch of the hands. Then of a sudden the red rim
of the sun vanished behind the settling landscape, and all the grim
loneliness of the sea rose up to greet them.
"It is lonely; let us go and prepare for dinner. Look!" pointing to a
bright star far down the east. "And Corsica lies that way."
"And also madness!" was his thought.
"Oh, it seems not quite true that we are all going a-venturing as they
do in the story-books. The others think we are just going to Funchal.
Remember, you must not tell. Think of it; a real treasure, every franc
of which must tell a story of its own; love, heroism and devotion."
"Beautiful! But there must be a rescuing of princesses and fighting
and all that. I choose the part of remaining by the princess."
"It is yours." She tilted back her head and breathed and breathed.
She knew the love of living.
"Lucky we are all good sailors," he said. "There will be a fair sea on
all night. But how well she rides!"
"I love every beam and bolt of her."
Shoulder to shoulder they bore forward to the companionway, and
immediately the door banged after them.
Breitmann came out from behind the funnel and walked the deck for a
time. He had studied the two from his shelter. What were they saying?
Oh, Fitzgerald was clever and strong and good to look at, but . . . !
Breitmann straightened his arms before him, opened and shut his hands
violently. Like that he would break him if he interfered with any of
his desires. It would be fully twenty days before they made Ajaccio.
Many things might happen before that time.
Two or three of the crew were lashing on the rail-canvas, and the snap
and flap of it jarred on Breitmann's nerves. For a week or more his
nerves had been very close to the surface, so close that it had
required all his will to keep his voice and hands from shaking. As he
passed, one of the sailors doffed his cap and bowed with great respect.
"That's not the admiral, Alphonse," whispered another of the crew,
chuckling. "It's only his privit secretary."
"Ah, I haf meestake!"
But Alphonse had made no mistake. He knew who it was. His mates did
not see the smile of irony, of sly ridicule, which stirred his lips as
he bowed to the passer. Immediately his rather handsome effeminate
face resumed a stolid vacuity.
His name was not Alphonse; it was a captious offering by the crew,
which, on this yacht, never went further than to tolerate the addition
of a foreigner to their mess. He had signed a day or two before
sailing; he had even begged for the honor to ship with Captain
Flanagan; and he gave his name as Pierre Picard, to which he had no
more right than to Alphonse. As Captain Flanagan was too good a sailor
himself to draw distinctions, he was always glad to add a foreign
tongue to his crew. You never could tell when its use might come in
handy. That is why Pierre Picard was allowed to drink his soup in the
forecastle mess.
Breitmann continued on, oblivious to all things save his cogitations.
He swung round the bridge. He believed that he and Cathewe could
henceforth proceed on parallel lines, and there was much to be grateful
for. Cathewe was quiet but deep; and he, Breitmann, had knocked about
among that sort and knew that they were to be respected. In all, he
had made only one serious blunder. He should never have permitted the
vision of a face to deter him. He should have taken the things from
the safe and vanished. It had not been, a matter of compunction. And
yet . . . Ah, he was human, whatever his dream might be; and he loved
this American girl with all his heart and mind. It was not lawless
love, but it was ruthless. When the time was ripe he would speak.
Only a little while now to wait. The course had smoothed out, the
sailing was easy. The man in the chimney no longer bothered him.
Whoever and whatever he was, he had not shot his bolt soon enough.
Hildegarde von Mitter. He stopped against the rail. The yacht was
burying her nose now, and the white drift from her cut-water seemed
strangely luminous as it swirled obliquely away in the fading twilight.
Hildegarde von Mitter. Was she to be the flaw in the chain? No, no;
there should be no regret; he had steeled his heart against any such
weakness. She had been necessary, and he would be a fool to pause over
a bit of sentimentality. Her appearance had disorganized his nerves,
that was all. Peering into his watch he found that he had only half an
hour before dinner. And it may be added that he dressed with singular
care.
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