be given to the captain;
so he won't imagine that I've tumbled overboard; and she can send my
boxes ashore to-morrow, if you will be kind enough to fetch them before
the _Milo_ weighs."

"But, meanwhile?" he hazarded.

"Oh, meanwhile, I must manage somehow for the night. I slipped a few
things into my hand-bag here." She drew her fur cloak a little aside,
and displayed it--a small satchel hanging from her waist by a silver
chain. The Commandant had a glimpse at the same moment of a skirt of
rose-coloured silk, brocaded in a pattern of silver.

"And when we land," he asked, "where am I to take you?"

"I am in your hands."

He stared at her, dismayed. "But you have friends?"

"None who would remember me; not a soul, at least, in St. Lide's."

"There is the Plume of Feathers Inn, to be sure----"

"If you recommend it," she said, demurely, as he hesitated.

He almost lost his temper. "Recommend it? Of course I don't."

"Well, from what I remember of the Plume of Feathers--unless it has
altered----"

"Wouldn't it be wiser to turn back?" he suggested, desperately, staring
into the fog, in which the lights of the _Milo_ had long since
disappeared.

"What? When we have this moment opened the quay-light? There!... didn't
I promise you that I knew my way among the Islands?"

In the basin of the harbour the fog lay thicker than in the roads, and
they had scarcely made sure that this was indeed the quay-light before
their boat grated against the landing-steps of the quay itself. The
Commandant, after he had shipped his oars and checked the way on her,
pressing both hands against the dripping wall, put up one of them and
passed the back of it slowly across his forehead. He was considering;
and, while he considered, his companion stepped lightly ashore.
"Forgive me," he pleaded, recollecting himself. "At least, I should
have offered you my hand."

"Thank you, I did not need it."

"But listen, please," he protested, scrambling out upon the steps,
painter in hand, and groping for a ring-bolt. "You cannot possibly stay
the night at the Plume of Feathers----"

He heard her laugh, as he stooped, having found the ring, to make fast
the rope.

"Commandant, have you ever travelled across Wyoming--in winter, in a
waggon? Very well, then; I have."

"Surely not in the clothes you are wearing?" The Commandant, as any one
in the Council of Twelve could tell you, was no debater; yet sometimes
he had been known to triumph ev