could only
be a pain to them both to speak of such things, and that whether she
would or no, she must do everything as her grandfather bade her, for
that he was indeed a terrible man.

To this poor Barnaby could only repeat that he loved her with all his
heart, that he had hoped for nothing in his love, but that he was now
the most miserable man in the world.

It was at this moment, so tragic for him, that some one who had been
hiding nigh them all the while suddenly moved away, and Barnaby True
could see in the gathering darkness that it was that villain manservant
of Sir John Malyoe's and knew that he must have overheard all that had
been said.

The man went straight to the great cabin, and poor Barnaby, his brain
all atingle, stood looking after him, feeling that now indeed the last
drop of bitterness had been added to his trouble to have such a wretch
overhear what he had said.

The young lady could not have seen the fellow, for she continued leaning
over the rail, and Barnaby True, standing at her side, not moving, but
in such a tumult of many passions that he was like one bewildered, and
his heart beating as though to smother him.

So they stood for I know not how long when, of a sudden, Sir John
Malyoe comes running out of the cabin, without his hat, but carrying his
gold-headed cane, and so straight across the deck to where Barnaby and
the young lady stood, that spying wretch close at his heels, grinning
like an imp.

"You hussy!" bawled out Sir John, so soon as he had come pretty near
them, and in so loud a voice that all on deck might have heard the
words; and as he spoke he waved his cane back and forth as though he
would have struck the young lady, who, shrinking back almost upon the
deck, crouched as though to escape such a blow. "You hussy!" he bawled
out with vile oaths, too horrible here to be set down. "What do you do
here with this Yankee supercargo, not fit for a gentlewoman to wipe her
feet upon? Get to your cabin, you hussy" (only it was something worse he
called her this time), "before I lay this cane across your shoulders!"

What with the whirling of Barnaby's brains and the passion into which he
was already melted, what with his despair and his love, and his anger at
this address, a man gone mad could scarcely be less accountable for his
actions than was he at that moment. Hardly knowing what he did, he put
his hand against Sir John Malyoe's breast and thrust him violently back,
crying