d all
her brother's decision and fire, however, as I was to see exemplified
more than once.

It was on the third of our quiet afternoons that I was sitting in the
corridor with a volume in my hand, conscious merely of the many sounds
in that silence, and scarcely aware of what I read. The voyage seemed
to partake of the nature of that fabled voyage of the ancient mariner.
Some strange doom hung over us all, and yet the sky smiled, as it did
that moment, and the cold breath of the blue sea was inspiring in one's
nostrils like wine in the blood. I was aware in this dream that a door
had opened and shut, and that the Princess had come into the corridor.
She sat on a chair not far from me and plied her needles in a way that
struck me now, as I roused myself, as very homely and pleasant. I shot
a glance at her. She was very simply dressed in what, for all I know,
may have been a very extravagant fashion. She had the knitted waistcoat
she was making (I concluded for her brother) across her knee, and I had
a full view of her as she swayed and moved about her task. Those
flowing lines, that sweet ripeness, the excellent beauty of her face,
impressed me newly. She met my glance, and smiled.

"What do you find interests you, Dr. Phillimore?" she asked in her
pleasant voice.

"I was reading, or pretending to read, a book of poems," I answered.

"Poems," she replied, plying her needles, and then in a little, "It is
strange you should be reading poems and I knitting here."

"It puzzles me," said I. I rose and went to the window behind her which
was not shuttered, and for the light from which she had seated herself
there. The crisp sparkle of the sea rose to eyes and ears. When I
turned, Princess Alix had ceased from her work and was looking towards
me.

"You wonder why?" she asked.

"I have made many guesses, but have never satisfied myself yet why the
mutiny is not pushed to its logical conclusion."

"Which would mea----" she said thoughtfully.

"Which would mean," I interrupted quickly, "the possession of the
treasure."

There was something deeply significant in her gaze, something that was
brave, and appealed, and winced at the same time. She went on slowly
with her knitting.

"He is waiting his time," she remarked in a low voice.

"He will wait too long," I said with a little laugh.

"Do you think so?" she asked, and, laying down her work, went to the
window as I had done. "It is cold."

"We are off an icy sho