ince last night
caught myself wishing for that fiend's death. But what you suggest is
impossible! The laws of this country do not permit of murder! It is only
in our beautiful France that wholesale slaughter is done lawfully, in
the name of Liberty and of brotherly love."

Sir Andrew had persuaded her to sit down to the table, to partake of
some supper and to drink a little wine. This enforced rest of at least
twelve hours, until the next tide, was sure to be terribly difficult to
bear in the state of intense excitement in which she was. Obedient in
these small matters like a child, Marguerite tried to eat and drink.

Sir Andrew, with that profound sympathy born in all those who are in
love, made her almost happy by talking to her about her husband. He
recounted to her some of the daring escapes the brave Scarlet Pimpernel
had contrived for the poor French fugitives, whom a relentless and
bloody revolution was driving out of their country. He made her eyes
glow with enthusiasm by telling her of his bravery, his ingenuity, his
resourcefulness, when it meant snatching the lives of men, women, and
even children from beneath the very edge of that murderous, ever-ready
guillotine.

He even made her smile quite merrily by telling her of the Scarlet
Pimpernel's quaint and many disguises, through which he had baffled the
strictest watch set against him at the barricades of Paris. This last
time, the escape of the Comtesse de Tournay and her children had been a
veritable masterpiece--Blakeney disguised as a hideous old market-woman,
in filthy cap and straggling grey locks, was a sight fit to make the
gods laugh.

Marguerite laughed heartily as Sir Andrew tried to describe Blakeney's
appearance, whose gravest difficulty always consisted in his great
height, which in France made disguise doubly difficult.

Thus an hour wore on. There were many more to spend in enforced
inactivity in Dover. Marguerite rose from the table with an impatient
sigh. She looked forward with dread to the night in the bed upstairs,
with terribly anxious thoughts to keep her company, and the howling of
the storm to help chase sleep away.

She wondered where Percy was now. The DAY DREAM was a strong, well-built
sea-going yacht. Sir Andrew had expressed the opinion that no doubt
she had got in the lee of the wind before the storm broke out, or else
perhaps had not ventured into the open at all, but was lying quietly at
Gravesend.

Briggs was an exper