n,
to be precipitated by a word, a motion, a caress, a note ... that
night, I say, as I sat on the forward deck alone, I heard, far off and
faint as though indeed it were the lute of Andalusia, the low, slow,
deep throb of a guitar!... My whole heart stopped. I was no more
than a focused demand of life. Reason was gone from me, not intellect
but emotion--that is its basic thing after all, emotion born on earth
but reaching to the stars.... I listened, not hearing.... It was the
air we had heard long ago, a love song of old Spain, written, perhaps,
before DeSoto and his men perished in these very bayous and forests
that now shielded us against all tumult, all turmoil, all things
unhappy or unpleasant. The full tide of life and love swept through my
veins as I listened.

I rose, I hastened. At her door I paused. "Helena!" I called
raucously. "Helena." And she made no reply. "Helena," I called again.
"It was the same old air. This is Spain again! Ah, I thank you for
that same old air. Helena, forgive me. May I come in--will you come
out?"

I halted. A cold voice came from the companionway door. "You have a
poor ear for music, John Doe. It is not the same. Do you think I would
take orders from you, or any other man?"

I stood irresolute a moment, and then did what I should not have done.
I pulled open her door. "Come out," I demanded. But then I closed the
door and went away. She was sitting, her head bowed on the instrument
she had played. And when she looked up, startled at my rudeness, I saw
her eyes wet with tears.

CHAPTER XXI

IN WHICH WE MAKE A RUN FOR IT

"Gadzooks! Black Bart," remarked L'Olonnois at the breakfast table the
next morning, "and where is the captive maiden?"

"I do not know," was my answer. "Better go find out, Jimmy."

He departed, but presently, returned somewhat troubled.

"My Auntie Helen," said he, "I mean the captive maid, why, she says
she's got a headache and don't want no breakfast."

"Not even a grapefruit and a cup of coffee?" I demanded, anxiously
and, it must be admitted, somewhat guiltily; for I knew that the soul
of Helena was grieved and whatever the trouble, the fault was my own.
Surely I had placed the poor captive in a most difficult position, and
loving her as I did, how could I continue to give her discomfort? My
resolution almost weakened. I was considerably disturbed.

And yet as I faced the alternative of setting her free, and once more
taking up the aiml