“That means pardoned; there is no hope of that.”

“Perhaps not, but that is not all it means.  Any indentured man, under our Maryland laws, can buy his freedom, after serving a certain proportion of his sentence.  I think it is true in any of the Colonies.  Did you not know that?”

I did know it, yet somehow had never connected the fact before directly with my own case.  I had been sentenced to twenty years—­twenty years of a living death—­and that alone remained impressed on my mind.  I could still see Black Jeffries sitting on the bench, glaring down at me in unconcealed anger, his eyes blazing with the fury of impotent hate, as he roared, that, by decree of the King, my sentence to be hung was commuted to twenty years of penal servitude beyond seas.  It had never even seemed an act of mercy to me.  But now it did, as the full truth suddenly came home, that I could buy my freedom.  God! what a relief; I stood up straight once more in the stature of a man.  I hardly know what wild words I might have spoken had the opportunity been mine; but at that instant the figure of a man crossed the deck toward us, emerging from the open cabin door.  Against the gleam of yellow light I recognized the trim form advancing, and as instantly stepped back into shadow.  My quick movement caused her to turn, and face him.

“What!” he exclaimed, and evidently surprised at his discovery.  “It is indeed Mistress Dorothy—­out here alone?  ’Twas my thought you were safely in your cabin long since.  But—­prithee—­I mistake; you are not alone.”

He paused, slightly irresolute, staring forward beyond her at my dimmer outline, quite uncertain who I might be, yet already suspicious.

“I was preparing to go in,” she answered, ignoring his latter words.  “The night already looks stormy.”

“But your friend?”

The tone in which he spoke was insistent, almost insolent in its demand, and she hesitated no longer in meeting the challenge.

“Your pardon, I am sure—­Lieutenant Sanchez, this gentleman is Captain Geoffry Carlyle.”

He stood there stiff and straight against the background of light, one hand in affected carelessness caressing the end of a waxed moustache.  His face was in shadow, yet I was quite aware of the flash of his eyes.

“Ah, indeed—­some passenger I have not chanced to observe before?”

“A prisoner,” she returned distinctly.  “You may perhaps remember my uncle pointed him out to us when he first came aboard.”

“And you have been out here alone, talking with the fellow?”

“Certainly—­why not?”

“Why, the man is a felon, convicted of crime, sentenced to deportation.”

“It is not necessary that we discuss this, sir,” she interposed, rather proudly, “as my personal conduct is not a matter for your criticism.  I shall retire now.  No; thank you, you need not come.”

He stopped still, staring blankly after her as she vanished; then wheeled about to vent his anger on me.