Doublets and Hose

H. C. BAILEY

AOUL condemned the wine of the Ewe Lamb. The Ewe Lamb would give him only Rhenish when he wanted "the good blood of Burgundy." (Raoul talks so much of wine that I think he must have been a very temperate little man.) Observe him, then, taking his ease in the wainscoted guest room of the Ewe Lamb and condemning his liquor. He had probably a leg on the table.

The landlord ushered in with respect two lean men dressed in a dull gray frieze. Their faces also were gray, their hair lank. They were absurdly alike and joyless. Raoul cocked his head on one side. "Judas Iscariot and son."

One of them signed the landlord out, and the two stalked stiffly to Raoul. "Your name is Raoul?" one asked.

Raoul, head on one side, looked them up and down. "God help your wives," said he: and began to sing to them.

"Fellow—fellow—I would have you to know I am Alderman Peter van Hessels, fellow. And this is my son the Councilor Peter van Hessels."

"Peter Minor—kill Peter Major for bringing you into the world: Peter Major—kill Peter Minor for coming into the world. Thus joy regains her sway."

"You are drunk, fellow."

Raoul shuddered, dramatically. "God forbid! If I were, I might see four of you. I could not, pardieu, survive it."

The two looked at each other. "I desire to know, fellow, if you are one Raoul, who took letters from the Prince of Orange into Leyden."

"I am that Raoul—and many other Raouls."

The two Peters nodded at each other and sat down. They leaned over the table mysteriously. "I have a matter to propound," said the alderman, and Raoul yawned. "My son the councilor has an affiancedbride"

"Oh, earth and heaven! She can never have seen him."

"She has not yet seen me in fact," said the councilor. "That is our trouble."

"Your good fortune. Peter Minor, marry her in a mask."

"This maiden," the alderman continued, "this maiden is the daughter of my cousin Oswald Fruytiers, who is dead, and the ward of my brother"

"Corbleu, are there more of your family?"

"—my brother Jan van Hessels, the goldsmith in Bergen op Zoom. Bergen, you know, is within the Spanish bounds, and my brother writes that there is no way to send Catarina safely. Look you now, I believe that my brother does not wish to send Catarina. He has all her father's money, and he would not want to give it up."

"He is, faith, your own brother, Peter Major." Raoul turned: "Peter Minor, do you love your Catarina?"

The councilor was puzzled. "But she is my affianced bride," he cried.

"The maiden and the dowry were promised. I have the bond," cried the alderman.

"Do you know what hell is for? It is to burn bonds. And bondholders."

The alderman grew angry. "Sir—look you, sir, this is not a thing to jest with. I come to you and I ask what do you advise, for you"

"Advise? I advise, corbleu, that Peter Minor content himself with the life of virginity. So shall it be best for some woman and the world."

The alderman feigned, not very skillfully, tolerant good temper. "Pish, pish!" said he. "Now you, sir, as they say, are a man of skill and of daring. You have undertaken dangerous deeds and"

"And achieved them, mordieu. But I never undertook to find a wife for Peter Minor."

"My son the councilor dare not go to Bergen himself. But you, you do not fear the Spaniards"

"I fear nothing but God and bad wine."

"Well, sir, very well. Now look you, I give you commission to go to Bergen and seek out this maiden privily and learn of her if my brother be ready to pay her dowry. If he will, it is very well, and you shall bring her openly. But if he will not, look you, you shall take her away unknown to him and she must bring with her some of his jewels to be her dowry. He is the goldsmith of Bergen, and there must be rich goods easy for her to take. And you shall get her out of the town and' bring her to me here in Rotterdam."

Raoul looked him between the eyes. "You—alderman!" said Raoul. "And how if the maiden will bring herself for love of—of that," he jerked a nod at the councilor, "but will not steal her dowry?"

"You shall tell her that the dowry is in the bond, and she is shamed to be a wife without it."

"Fifty gold florins now—a hundred more if I do your work." Raoul's prices had risen.

The two Peters recoiled, and began to higgle [sic].

At last they consented, and Raoul howled for the landlord and ink and paper.

Raoul, left alone, looked at his bond and laughed. "If I kept the dowry and left Peter Minor the bride!" he suggested to himself. "That would be amusing."

So in the springtime the Eel and Cradle at Bergen op Zoom welcomed a little guest. He announced for all men to hear that he was a poor Spanish gentleman on his way to join Don Julian Romero. Whereat other guests, two lusty French merchants and a square-faced Englishman, looked upon him askance. He treated them with full Spanish arrogance.

"Lie first (it is a maxim of Raoul's)—"Lie first. There will always be room for the truth. Truth first—then no room for the lie when you need it."

Raoul fed full and drank, and went out from the Eel and Cradle in the twilight. He learned that Master Jan van Hessels, goldsmith, was an alderman, that he lived at the sign of the Brazen Serpent in the Street of St. Anthony, in the new town. The street was something rural and houses few in it. Jan van Hessels's Brazen Serpent was big, and back from it ran a walled garden where the scent of the limes hung fragrant.

Raoul, hat on one side, nonchalant, swaggered along to the garden gate. Five rascals with cudgels sprang out upon him. But Raoul, for all his airs, was wholly alert. Sideways he sprang, six feet at a bound. Out leaped sword and dagger. "What! What! How, knaves? Is there man-killing toward?" he thundered in Spanish. "Then, by good Sant' lago—" He lunged on the invocation.

The cudgelers did not await him. "A Spaniard," they muttered, "a Spaniard!" and turning, fled together—fled into the Brazen Serpent and slammed its door behind them.

Then behold Raoul, most truculent, stalking up to that door and battering upon it with the hilt of his bare sword. At last a little wicket opened and some one asked his business.

"Business? That word to a gentleman? Rascal! Open your door, rogue, and produce me the man of the house."

The wicket was shut again, and after a while the door was opened d a serving man quavered out a question as to Raoul's name. Raoul took him by the ear and jerked him. "Bring forth your knave master, knave."

The servant shuffled on and brought him to an inner room, and hurriedly withdrew. Raoul had no need to ask whom he beheld. Master Alderman Jan van Hessels, gray-faced, goggle-eyed, was true brother of Peter. Raoul, hat cocked over one ear, sword twirling in finger and thumb, looked him up and down.

"Well, sir, well?" cried the alderman, nervously, "what is your errand?"

"Errand?" Raoul thundered an oath. "Do I look a man to run errands?"

"Then, sir, your wish, sir, your purpose," the alderman stammered hastily.

"Mark me now, burgess. I am Juan Perez, a poor gentleman of Spain. I take my evening walk, and I am set upon by five cursed rogues. May the devil and—" he checked the imprecation and bowed low. Framed in the doorway a girl stood, flushed, bright-eyed: the hair beneath her coif gleamed golden. Raoul swung away from her. "By five cursed rogues, burgess. And they are fled into your house. Now, sirrah, how come you to set your curs upon a gentleman? Expound me quickly."

The alderman signed the girl out of the room. But she came farther in, and dropped a courtesy to Raoul.

"Hark ye, sirrah," Raoul made his sword quiver, a ripple of light, under the alderman's eyes, "this poor carcass shall not be vilely entreated while my soul is in it. Why are your varlets turned upon me?"

And while the alderman bit his finger:

"By Sant' Iago!" Raoul thundered: "do you palter with me, burgess? I come peaceably by your house, and your foot-boys take cudgels to me, and you have no word of excuse!" He rapped out a large oath. "Mark me, sirrah! I am no man to jest with. I can thrust through a needle's eye. I can snuff a candle with my point. So—sa ha! sa ha!" he lunged, stamping his foot, at the two candles.

Over they went, and out. The room was dark, and out of the darkness Raoul roared on: "What is your business with me, burgess? Had I come here by midnight" (his left hand was groping toward Catarina), "had I sought to rob you, to force your strong box, had I" (he found Catarina's hand and pressed it) "had I stolen into your garden and lurked there—then, faith, your rogues had had reason."

The alderman had found his tinder box and struck light again. Raoul had dropped Catarina's hand, and she was looking at him curiously.

"Did you take me, burgess, for a rogue like yourself?"

"I profess, sir, it was a blunder. It was all a blunder. My lads are fools. I protest I humbly ask your pardon. I had word of a thief, and"

"Thief? That word to me! Now by all good saints this surpasses! Thief!" Raoul walked upon the alderman sword out, and the alderman ran away from him round the table. "Thief! I will show you a thrust for that, sirrah." His sword shot out like a striking snake, and one of the alderman's buttons went rattling to the floor. The alderman with a yell sprang out of the door; Raoul lunged after him again, and he fell on the stairs.

"The garden—midnight—love's envoy comes": it was whispered soft and low in the girl's ear while the alderman picked himself up. Then, aloud: "That will teach you, burgess, to respect a gentleman who does you the honor to pass your house," said Raoul, and put up his sword. "Lady, I commit you to Heaven," he bowed, and as she courtesied before him caught the faint sign of her head. Her eyes were shining. "Burgess, I commit you—elsewhere," and slammed the door.

The thin, white May moon was over the town, sharp gable and feathery tree silvered in her light, and the shadows gloomed blue black. Raoul lounged against the wall of the garden. The midnight chimes died away. Raul waited a while, went up and over the wall like a cat. A form came to him swiftly, rustling. Raoul took her hands and kissed them both. "Lady, well met. Keep close," said he, and drew her against him into the gloom beneath the limes. "May a man speak to you of love?"

"Indeed, sir, many men have."

"Nay, who can wonder?" Raoul sighed. "And I, lady, am come to plead for one fool more."

"'Tis a compliment to me."

Raoul took her hand. "Ah, what is life without you?"

"I have not tried, indeed."

"Lady, you are a woman"

"Sir, my mother determined it so."

"—and what is a woman without love?"

"Even as a man without wit, sir."

"I come from one who loves you as never man loved yet—from one who would go through fire and water"

"But not, it seems, over a wall!"

"Lady, he would not peril you by his presence. Peter van Hessels"

Catarina started back. "Peter van Hessels? You come from him?"

"Behold me Dan Cupid in breeches—hot envoy of Peter's love."

"He—he loves me?"

"With a love wholly amazing."

"And what does he ask of me?"

Raoul snatched her hand and pressed it. "Lady, he asks of you—you! That body of grace, those sea-dark, sea-bright eyes, that"

"Oh, I thank you. I have my own mirror. Sir, does Master van Hessels want no more than myself?"

Raoul coughed. "You—ah—you reduce me to say, lady, that he spoke also of a dowry."

"I knew!" she cried. "And you, I doubt, were to share in it."

"In fact," said Raoul, slowly, "I am hired at a price."

"Love's envoy!" she said, and again: "Love's envoy!" and laughed. Then swiftly: "Oh, indeed it grieves me to spoil your bargain! God be with you!" And she whirled away.

But Raoul held her, gripping her wrists. "If you had made my bargain you had broken my heart. The light in your eyes must glow for a man—and it shall. And yet I thank God I have come. I have had your hands in mine, I have tasted the breath of your hair. I—" he snatched her to his breast, and kissed her.

She tore herself away, she stood in the moonlight white, fierce-eyed, her bosom storm-tossed. "You—you—" she gasped.

"I," said Raoul, "am a man." And went over the wall.

Slowly he walked to his inn. His head was thrown back, his eyes studied the dark blue void and its mingled stars.

When he came to the Eel and Cradle he demanded wine of a sleepy servant, and dropped himself down in a leathern elbow chair, and flung his hat and his feet on the table. Then he observed that the square-faced Englishman was fronting him.

"A word in your ear," says he. Raoul disdainfully inclined his head. "You are no Spaniard."

"Madre Dios, rascal"

"You do not swear enough," said the Englishman, calmly. Raoul at once produced him several oaths more, but he continued, unheeding: "I am glad you are not a Spaniard. I do not like Spaniards. And I have to ask you to serve me," He hesitated. "I owe you something already. Those fellows who set upon you were looking for me. Then you went into the house. I want to know if you will go there again. I want you to take a letter from me to"

Raoul brought his feet down to the floor with a bang. "Oh, the devil! Peter the third!" says he.

"I do not understand."

"You were not meant to. Go on."

"I want you to take a letter from me to Mistress Catarina Fruytiers secretly. No one else must know of it." He hesitated and flushed. "I—you—there may be expense"

"I promise you there will be," said Raoul. "Also, I carry no letter without knowing what is inside of it."

The Englishman looked him between the eyes. "I ask for your honor."

"I sell that, faith, every day."

"I ask you for your honor," said the Englishman again.

"At your service." Raoul shrugged his shoulders lightly. But the Englishman held out his hand. Raoul waited a while before he took it.

"I shall tell her that I love her with all my heart—that I shall love her always." Raoul yawned. "I shall pray her be ready to fly with me"

"Bringing, it is understood, her dowry."

"God's wounds!" The English oath roared out. "You—you—do you think that I know or care if she have a penny?"

"It seems," said Raoul, "I shall have to ask your pardon." The Englishman bowed, stiffly. "Nevertheless, if I were you I should bear my own love letters."

"If I do I am caught, perhaps hanged."

Raoul flopped back in his chair. "Oh, Peter," says he, with a sneer, "Peter after all. In fact, my Englishman, you are not very brave."

"It serves neither my lady nor me," said the Englishman, "that I should be hanged."

"You are vain. Now—you spoke of her flying with you. How, my friend, do you fly?"

"I do not know."

"I was sure of it!"

"I must tell you—I met my lady two years ago when I came here a venturer in a bark of Gresham's. Now I am come in my own ship, the Bonny Kate. I went to her guardian, that rascal Jan van Hessels, to ask her for my wife. He turned me out of his house. He told the Spanish commandant here that I was a rogue, a spy for the Prince of Orange and Boisot. So I am ordered to sail with my ship by sundown to-morrow if I would not be hanged. And I have not even seen her. I was stealing there in the twilight when those rogues tried to beat you. He has a guard of them, I suppose. Well! My ship will drop down the river on the afternoon tide. But I shall stay. I do not know more than that."

"But I do. And you will not look well on a gallows. I am sure you would wriggle clumsily. My Englishman, be wise and sail away."

The square face hardened. "I do not go without my lady."

Raoul looked at him a while, curiously. Then: "I suppose you know that you are infinitely unworthy?"

The Englishman laughed. "I am not a fool." Then the laugh died. "I shall merit her never."

Raoul lay back, a queer little smile on his lips. "Yes. You would hang badly," he murmured. He sat up with a jerk. "Go aboard your ship in the morning. Sail away in the afternoon."

"But then—but I—but"

"All the buts are my affair."

The Englishman stared. "What do you mean? What will you do?"

"I will tell you when I have done it."

The Englishman asked much more and learned little—is it strange? At last a letter was written, and went into Raoul's breast. A ring with three sapphires passed to Raoul's finger. Then the Englishman stuttered, and: "As touching the matter of expense—" he began.

Raoul flushed. "Go to the devil," said he, and went out.

On that he went to bed. It seems that he arose betimes, and did certain small matters of tailoring and correspondence. Then he went down to the sailors' taverns on the quay. He wanted some worthy soul to occupy the alderman's attention. "For an honest knave take a sailor" ('tis a maxim of his). "For your dishonest knave the soldier is nonpareil." He was, you remember, a soldier himself. From the sailors' taverns he came back to breakfast, and in due season to (he Street of St. Anthony and Master Alderman Jan van Hessels.

Fellows lounging under the eaves regarded him nervously and slunk away, not minded to mistake him twice. Raoul swaggered up to the house door, and rapped with power, while the armed guard within bent his ear to the wicket. When he finally opened the door Raoul stalked in, and in the loudest of voices: "Announce the Señor Don Juan Perez," he cried. "You understand? The Señor—Don—Juan—Perez." It was, in fact, clear enough for all the household and half the street to understand. The guard gaped upon him. "The Señor Don Juan Perez!" Raoul thundered, and the man backed, bowing, and hurried off.

Raoul sauntered through the hall. There was a swift rustle of skirts on the stair, and Catarina came down upon him, her cheeks aflame. "You? You dare?" she said.

Raoul said nothing. He held out his left hand with the fingers wide apart. On one of them gleamed the ring of three sapphires. She paled, she started back, her hand to her breast. Raoul put his hands behind him. "Trust. Follow." Raoul's lips framed the words, but made scarce a sound. The serving lad was coming toward them.

Again Raoul came to the presence of Master Alderman Jan van Hessels. He took off his hat and saluted elaborately. Catarina watched in amaze.

"Pray, sir, what obtains me this honor?" says the alderman, nervously.

"Burgess, I shall expound. First, I discover that I was something harsh with you last night. I learn that you have good cause to suspect danger (though, by Sant' Iago, to take me for a hired bravo was diabolic insolence. But pass—pass). I say you may well suspect danger. How do I know it? Mark me now! I betake me to the Duke of Alva tavern. I drink a measure of Xeres wine. (Xeres quotha! Bah! But pass.) There be two seafaring rogues chattering. I catch your name. I incline my ear. Have a care, burgess! There is villainy toward. They speak of you—of your ward—of your wealth, too, burgess. They say that both rightly pertain to one Peter van Hessels. Now who a plague is Peter van Hessels, burgess?"

"I know, sir, I know," cried the alderman. "Go on, sir."

"But you—" cried Catarina. Raoul waved his hand carelessly, and the sapphires flashed. Catarina gulped and was silent.

"Go on? Faith, I have done. They said that there is one in the town minded to seize ward and wealth for this Peter."

"I am most grateful. I— Pray you, what like were these two fellows?"

Raoul began an elaborate and pictorial description, in the midst of which came a journeyman to say there was a sailor in the shop with a letter which he would give to none but the alderman. The alderman, rising, begged Raoul to await him.

"If you are long I must needs depart; but," said Raoul, politely, "I will surely come again."

The alderman was hardly gone before Raoul sprang to Catarina and caught her hands. "Your own chamber! Quick!"

"Sir!" the girl gasped—"you—I"

"If you love your love!" The sapphires blazed in her sapphire eyes.

"Yes—yes."

Raoul let her go and signed to the door. She looked long in his eyes, and turned and led the way. Out in the hall: "Lady, I give you good day," said Raoul aloud, and stalked noisily to the door of the street. He opened it, he slammed it again and stayed inside. Then swift, noiseless, he stole back to her, and "Quick!" he whispered, and they fled upstairs together. A moment, and they were together in her little low room, she pale and panting. Raoul swept one glance round, and got into the wardrobe. "Lock me in," he whispered. "Go down then and tell the good man I am gone."

"But—but"

"There is never a but in love."

The door was locked upon him. Raoul protests that it was long hours ere there came a rustle without and the click of a key—it was opened.

Raoul came out with a gasp: "Phew! I shall never love lavender again"; and he sat down on her bed and fanned himself, and smiled at Catarina.

Catarina was pale still, and her bosom quick, but her blue eyes shone. "I pray you—" she began in a whisper. Raoul sprang to her. Her hand was in his, his arm about her before she knew it. He drew the lithe, gracious form against him, he bent to the blood in her cheek—she turned and the blue eyes met his. She did not struggle nor cry. "By your honor, by your faith," she said quickly, "have you nothing from him who gave you the ring?"

"He!" Raoul laughed. "Another without the wit to win you himself—another proxy lover who"

"Who trusted me to you," said Catarina.

Raoul let her go. His swarthy face paled, and he said something behind his teeth. He plucked the letter out of his bosom and gave it her. Catarina had not moved at all, and stood still close to his heart. In a moment: "Yes. He says I am to trust you altogether," she said, and looked up to him, smiling.

Raoul flung away, and the word on his lips was an oath.

It was a moment before he came to take her hand. Then his face was placid. "Lady, last night I told you that I came from Peter van Hessels. It is remarkable; but I said the truth. I found, lady, you were worthy a man. And after, by a chance, I found the man of whom you are worthy."

Smile and blush came with darkening eyes. "Indeed I am not," she said.

Raoul laughed. "You and he will agree marvelously." She looked in his eyes a moment. "On my honor, lady, I mean you faithfully." She bowed, "Last night I gave you a woman's due. I did not know that I took another man's right. And now—well, one is man after all. But what you cannot give I do not care to take. You love him. You trust me. That is to be enough," Her eyes thanked him. "Aye, pardieu. He has all of your heart. But is the poor man never to have the rest?"

Her bosom rose, her eyes glowed, gloriously. Then she flung her arms wide.

"But I am in prison—I am chained here!" she cried, "Ah, if I were free!"

Raoul smiled. "Behold the way to freedom," said he, and began to take off his breeches.

In a moment they lay on the floor, and he stood up still in breeches. He dragged his cloak from the wardrobe, and behold it was two cloaks and a doublet to boot. He brought a hat out of his breast. "And I pray Heaven they fit," said he.

"You mean—" Catarina gasped.

"I think they explain themselves."

Catarina looked down at the clothes and blushed at them, and then smiled. "But even if I did"

"Then behold the Señor Don Juan Perez provided with a charming page."

"But how—how is the Señor Don Juan Perez to come out of my chamber?"

"Doubtless, my fair page, your servants eat dinner. While they eat, we flee."

"Oh—oh, dare we?"

"Dare we anything else?"

She turned away. "The alderman and I—we dine before the servants."

"Admirable! You will have a dinner inside you to give you heart for this heroical enterprise."

Catarina took up the hat and tried it on, and put it away. Catarina held up the doublet and put it down again. "I am sure they will be much too big," she murmured. Raoul stared upon the wall.

The clocks began striking noon. "Oh! this is our dinner hour," Catarina cried.

Raoul flung his clothes to the wardrobe and went in after them. Again the door was locked. It was, he avers, hours before he was let out.

"They are all at dinner" (Catarina was breathless); "the alderman is out."

"Oh, amiable old man!" said Raoul, and laid out the clothes on the bed in the manner of a valet.

Catarina drew back. "But he told me again I was not to go outside the house. And I am sure—I am sure the men in the street are ordered to stop me."

"In skirts only," said Raoul, and went back to the wardrobe. "Quick! quick! Love waits." And he pulled the door to upon him.

Sooner than he had thought there was a timid "You may come out," and he came out to see a very little person in the corner trying to shroud herself in the cloak. "Oh, please do not look. But is it—is it?"

Raoul slouched the hat down over her golden hair, took the cloak away, and flung it about her in new fashion. He stepped back two paces to examine her. She was all trembling, with scarlet cheeks.

Raoul swung away, opened the door, listened, stole out, listened again, and beckoned. Swift, light-footed, they crept downstairs and out.

Down the street they went, and the men under the eaves looked at them curiously. Raoul began to talk loud in Spanish. He abused his page with fluency, and the page flushed and stared at the ground.

Then out of a house came Alderman Jan van Hessels.

"Look, look!" the page gasped, and started back. Raoul's hand closed like a vise on her arm.

Then he slid before her, and: "Ha, burgess, well met!" says he, and he struck an attitude, hand on left hip, right leg forward. "Shall we finish our talk?"

The alderman bustled up. "At your very good pleasure, sir. I was hoping to see you speedily, sir. Now I am anxious—much

"Walk your anxieties my way." Raoul whirled round upon his page, and struck her across the check with his glove. "What, rogue! Must you be eavesdropping? Walk ten good paces behind, or your sides shall taste my whip." So they went on. "Never heed him," says Raoul, carelessly. "'Tis but a fool. And what was in the letter, burgess?"

"Sir, it was brazen. It was an infamy. It demanded my ward in marriage for my nephew Peter van Hessels. And it bade me post my answer on the market cross. And it said that if I would not give her she would be taken," the alderman spluttered. "Consider it, sir."

"I do, I do. And from whom came this letter, burgess?"

"It was signed Raoul de Tout le Monde. Raoul de Tout le Monde! Bah!"

"Bah! Bah!" said Raoul with enthusiasm. "And what will you do, burgess?"

"Do, sir? I go, sir, to my friend the burgomaster and my very good friend the commandant, to pray them have search made through the town for this fellow, this Raoul de Tout le Monde! "

"By Sant' Iago!" cried Raoul, "I hope you may find him!"

"I thank you, sir. I thank you. I am your debtor." They walked on a little more, the alderman expending himself in wrath. "My way lies here, sir," says he at last, at a cross street.

"And mine there," said Raoul. "But one word, burgess. What ails your nephew, that he must not wed the girl? A nephew of yours, faith, must needs be an honest gentleman!"

The alderman coughed. "You are to know, sir, that my ward inherits certain small moneys, and"

"And till she is wed you keep them. Oh, you are a warm man, a wily soul. No Raoul of any world will ever come over you, eh, burgess?" Raoul nudged his ribs.

The alderman looked austere a moment. Then he grinned. With two knowing nods they parted.

Raoul turned down a lane to the quay, and beckoned to his page. She came, and he took her arm, but she would not look at him. Raoul peeped under the slouched hat.

"Tears? Mordieu, remember you are a man!"

"I—I—oh, forgive me! I thought—I thought you were going to give me up—and indeed I never felt so much a woman."

"There is one who will not complain," said Raoul. To which she had nothing at all to say.

At the first stairs they took boat and rowed out to the Bonny Kate, Curious faces looked over the bulwarks: a rope ladder was thrown to them. "Oh, but I never can," cried Catarina, and nearly fell into the sea.

Raoul flung her over his shoulder and climbed up. Over the bulwarks he came full upon his Englishman, who recoiled, staring at the page, and cried: "Why, who is this, sir?"

"A man of no account. Go to your own shoulders," says Raoul, and put Catarina into his arms.

The man gave a smothered, wordless cry. Then she was crushed to his breast, and his kiss bore back her head. Down fell the hat, and her golden hair, her maiden coif, showed clear to the sunshine.

A moment only he held her on his heart. Then he sprang to the mizzen rigging. "Hands to the capstan! With a will now, lads, with a will!" The ship throbbed with life.

Bergen shore was dull on the horizon when they passed the word for the parson. Raoul admired then the foresight of his Englishman.

So they hove to, and were married. Raoul, as was wholly fitting, gave her away. And when she was Mistress Arthur Stukely (of Yealm in Devonshire) she turned to Raoul, and smiling and blushing said: "Sir—the woman's due is your right." And Raoul bowed and kissed her a last time.

From the quay of Rotterdam he watched a white sail, and sighed.

"Poor lass," said he.