“What is the matter?” asked Yvonne, in swift alarm.
“My old legs need stretching. I was too long still,” said Mother Pêche.
“No, you are troubled at something. Tell me at once,” cried Yvonne, rising also, and letting her cloak drop.
“Yes, _chérie_, yes!” answered the old woman, much agitated, and not daring to deceive her. “I _am_ much troubled. That was Le Fûret, Vaurin’s man, whom Captain Grande knocked down that day at the forge. He would do anything. He would lie even to you!”
“Then you think Paul is _not_”—she began, in a strained voice.
“I think he _may_ not be in _this_ ship,” interrupted Mother Pêche hurriedly. “But I’ll go right now and find out. Wait here for me.” And she went off briskly, poking through the confusion with her staff.
She knew men, this old dame; and she quickly found out what she wanted to find out. Trembling with apprehension, she came back to Yvonne—and went straight to the point.
“No, no, dear heart!” she began. “He is not here. He is on the other ship yonder. I have a plan, though”—
But there was no use going on; for Yvonne had dropped in a faint.
Mother Pêche was not alarmed, but, like the shrewd strategist she was, made haste to turn the evil to good account. She summoned a soldier—by excellent chance that same boyish-faced, tall fellow who had so patly aided at the embarking; and he with the best will in the world and a fluttering in his breast carried Yvonne straight to the captain’s cabin, where he laid her upon the berth. Then, at Mother Pêche’s request, he went to beg the captain’s presence for an instant in his cabin.
The ship was now well under way, directed by a pilot who knew the shoals and bars of Minas. The business of stowing baggage was in the hands of petty officers. The captain could be spared for a little; and without doubt the soldier’s manner proclaimed more clearly than words that here was no affair of a weeping peasant. To such the captain would just now have turned a deaf ear, for he had all day been striving to harden his heart against the sight of sorrows which he could not mitigate. He was an iron-grey, close-bearded man, this New England captain, with a stern mouth and half-shut, twinkling eyes. Rough toward men, he was gentle toward women, children, and animals. His name was John Stayner; and in Machias, Maine, whence he hailed, he had a motherless daughter of eighteen, the core of his heart, who was commonly said to rule him as the moon rules ocean. When John Stayner went to the cabin and saw Yvonne in his berth, her white eyelids just stirring to the first return of consciousness, there was small need of Mother Pêche’s explanations. The girl’s astonishing loveliness, her gentle breeding, the plain signals of her distress, all moved him beyond his wont. He straightway saw his own dark-haired Essie in like case—and forthwith, stirred by that fine chivalry which only a strong man far past youth can know, he was on Yvonne’s side, though all the world should be against her.