arrested. Nothing
remains but further flight, and when you ask me to fly and leave you
here, you ask what is impossible."

She stood for a time silent, a trifle paler, her flowers fallen from
her hand, clearly unhappy, but clearly not yet beaten. "Come," said
she coldly, "we must not be brutal to Aunt Lucinda also. Let us go
back."

"Yes," said I, "now you have back your parole."

"I think I should like an artichoke for luncheon," said she.
"Vinaigrette, you know." And she passed aft, her head hidden by her
white parasol, but I knew with chin as high as though she were Marie
Antoinette herself. Nor did I feel much happier than had I been her
executioner.

CHAPTER XXIII

IN WHICH IS A PRETTY KETTLE OF FISH

Miss Helena Emory had her artichoke for luncheon, and judging from my
own, my boy John never had prepared a better, good as he was with
artichokes; but we ate apart, the ladies not coming to our table. It
was late afternoon before I saw Helena again, once more come on deck.
She was sitting in a steamer chair with her face leaning against her
hand, and looking out across the water at the passing shipping. She
sat motionless a long time, the whole droop of her figure, the poise
of her tender curved chin, wistful and unhappy, although she said no
word. For myself, I did not accost her. I, too, looked up and down the
great river, not knowing at what moment some discerning eye might spy
us out, and I longed for nothing so much as that night or Peterson
would come.

He did come at last, late in the afternoon, on an outbound train, and
he hurried aboard as rapidly as he might. The first thing he did was
to hand me a copy of an afternoon paper. I opened it eagerly enough,
already well assured of what news it might carry.

On the front page, under a large, black head, was a despatch from
Baton Rouge relaying other despatches received at that point, from
many points between Plaquimine and Bayou Sara. These, in short, told
the story of the most high-handed attempt at river piracy known in
recent years. The private yacht of Calvin Davidson, a wealthy northern
business man, on his way South for the winter, had been seized by a
band of masked ruffians, who boarded her while the yacht's owner was
temporarily absent on important business in the city of Natchez. These
ruffians, abandoning their own boat, had at once gone on down-stream.
They had been hailed by officers of Baton Rouge, acting under advice
by wire f