ou give is an insult to me. There, there, you don't
understand, but, it's coming out all right. It was only when others were
meddling that we got on the rocks. I've got the rudder in my hand now,
and by God's help," he was fiercely flinging on the logs, "we'll sail
out into the open with colours flying. When did you eat last?"

She was watching him with alert, feverish eyes. Like an ensnared animal
she felt a frenzied eagerness to be ready for the snarer's next move.

"Eat?" she faltered, "why, why, I have forgotten.
Yesterday--to-day--oh! does it matter? I'm not hungry."

"Well, I am. I always wanted a snatch after the play."

"The--the play?" Joyce leaned forward.

"After an infernal row, if you like that better. They both play the
dickens with your digestion."

Bringing out the food, and making coffee eased the tension of the
situation and after they had eaten, for Joyce struggled to follow his
example, the atmosphere was less electrical.

The hands of the clock got around to ten-thirty; it was of no
consequence, however, and then Gaston cleared the table, kicked a
rebellious log back to its duty, and drew a chair beside Joyce.

The little bruised arm lay stretched pitifully along the arm of the
chair. Gaston winced as he saw it, and he laid his strong, warm hand
over the cold fingers that did not draw away.

"Joyce." His voice was almost solemn in its intensity. "I don't believe
there is anything I can say that you would understand now. God knows, I
pity you from the bottom of my soul and, God helping me, I'm going to
help you in the best way I can. You need rest more than any other little
woman in the world to-night, I reckon, go in there," he nodded toward
his own chamber, "and try your best to sleep. I want to smoke and think
it all out here by the fire. Remember, you are safe."

She rose stiffly and stood before him. Fear was gone from her; weakness
remained; a horrible, sickening weakness, but no fear. Vaguely,
gropingly, she tried to understand what lay behind his slow, solemn
words, but the effort was too great. She sighed and looked down upon him
as if he had suddenly become a stranger to her, then, stepping backward,
with uncertain faltering movement, she gained the door of that room
where no foot but Gaston's had ever before stepped.

CHAPTER X

It was mid-October when Ralph Drew, his pretty sister Constance and his
devoted maiden aunt--Miss Sally Drew--arrived in St. Ange and took up