“But there is no possibility of this?”

“Not the slightest.  But you are pale,—­don’t be alarmed; there is no danger.  The rebels have no suspicion of the expected arrival, we are certain.”

“But if they had?”

“Well, that might alter the case.  Their seamen know their business better than their landsmen.”

All this in the pauses of the dance.  When they started up again, the music had accelerated its time, and down the great hall they led the way at a fine pace; but in swinging about to return, Sir Harry felt his companion falter.

“What is it?” he asked anxiously.

“My slipper,” she replied with a vexed laugh; and, stooping as she spoke, she whisked off a little satin shoe, the high hollow metal heel of which had suddenly given way.  Certainly no more dancing that night.  For that matter, though, it was near the end of the ball.  But could not he do something?  Sir Harry asked.  He had tinkered gunscrews; why not a slipper?  No, no; nothing could be done then and there.  A new heel must be hammered and fitted on.

But then and there Sibyl had a sudden inspiration. Something could be done.  She was to go to Madame Boutineau’s rout the next evening.  She needed these very slippers for that occasion.  Would Sir Harry—­on his way to his quarters that night—­would he think it beneath his dignity to leave the slippers at Anthony Styles the shoemaker’s?  It was just there by the tavern at the sign of the gilded boot.  He had only to drop the shoe, with a message she would write to go with it, into the tunnel-box by the door, and Anthony would find it by daylight and set to work upon it at once, that she might not be disappointed, for it was a longish job, she knew.

Beneath his dignity!  Sir Harry laughed.  He was only too glad to do her bidding.

And would he then give her a bit of paper and pencil and take her to the cloak-room for a moment?

Alone in the cloak-room, Sibyl wrote her message to Anthony Styles.  Folding the paper in the slipper, and wrapping the whole in her pocket-handkerchief, she fastened the parcel securely with the silken cord that had held her fan.

“And may I have the last dance to-morrow night?” asked Sir Harry, smilingly, as he took leave of her a few minutes later.

“Perhaps, if I may depend upon you—­and Anthony Styles,” she answered.  Her eyes sparkled like dark jewels as she spoke; her cheeks burned like red twin roses.

CHAPTER III.

  Robe of satin and Brussels lace,
    Knots of flowers and ribbons too,
  Scattered about in every place,
    For the revel is through.

And there, in the midst of all this pretty disorder of satin and lace and flowers, sits Sibyl, far into the night, or rather morning, turning over and over in her mind something that effectually banishes sleep.