ad I followed my
heart, I would have prayed her pardon. A sore spirit I had impelled her,
my revenge lacked justice. Yet I would not abase myself, being now in my
turn sore and therefore obstinate. With slow strokes I propelled the
boat towards Dover town.

For half an hour I rowed; dusk fell, and I saw the lights of Dover. A
gentler mood came on me. I rested an instant, and, leaning forward, said
to Barbara:

"Yet I must thank you. Had I been in peril, you would have saved me."

No answer came.

"I perceived that you were moved by my fancied danger," I persisted.

Then she spoke clearly, calmly, and coldly.

"I wouldn't have a dog drown under my eyes," said she. "The spectacle is
painful."

I performed such a bow as I could, sitting there, and took up my oars
again. I had made my advance; if such were the welcome, no more should
come from me. I rowed slowly on, then lay on my oars awhile, waiting for
darkness to fall. The night came, misty again and chill. I grew cold as
I waited (my clothes were but half-dry), and would gladly have thumped
myself with my hands. But I should have seemed to ask pity of the statue
that sat there, enveloped in the cloak, with closed eyes and pale
unmoved face. Suddenly she spoke.

"Are you cold, sir?"

"Cold? I am somewhat over-heated with rowing, madame," I answered. "But,
I pray you, wrap your cloak closer round you."

"I am very well, I thank you, sir."

Yet cold I was, and bitterly. Moreover I was hungry and somewhat faint.
Was Barbara hungry? I dared not ask her lest she should find a fresh
mockery in the question.

When I ventured to beach the boat a little way out of Dover, it was
quite dark, being hard on ten o'clock. I offered Barbara my hand to
alight, but she passed it by unnoticed. Leaving the boat to its fate, we
walked towards the town.

"Where are you taking me?" asked Barbara.

"To the one person who can serve us," I answered. "Veil your face, and
it would be well that we shouldn't speak loud."

"I have no desire to speak at all," said Barbara.

I would not tell her whither she went. Had we been friends, to bring her
there would have taxed my persuasion to the full; as our affairs stood,
I knew she would lie the night in the street before she would go. But if
I got her to the house, I could keep her. But would she reach the house?
She walked very wearily, faltering in her step and stumbling over every
loose stone. I put out my arm to save her once, but