There were only three or four sailors on deck, weird, almost diabolical-looking creatures, Lesbia thought, in striped shirts, with bare arms, of a shining bronze complexion, flashing black eyes, sleek raven hair, a sinister look.  What species of men they were—­Mestizoes, Coolies, Yucatekes—­she knew not, but she felt that they were something wild and strange, and their presence filled her with a vague fear. He, whose influence now ruled her life, had told her that these men were born mariners, and that she was twenty times safer with them than when the yacht had been under the control of those honest, grinning red-whiskered English Jack Tars.  But she liked the English sailors best, all the same; and she shrank from the faintest contact with these tawny-visaged strangers, plucking away the train of her gown as they passed her chair, lest they should brush against her drapery.

On deck this morning, with only those dark faces near, she had a sense of loneliness, of helplessness, of abandonment even.  Unbidden the image of her home at Grasmere flashed into her mind—­all things so calm, so perfectly ordered, such a sense of safety, of home—­no peril, no temptation, no fever—­only peace:  and she had grown sick to death of peace.  She had prayed for tempest:  and the tempest had come.

There was a heavenly quiet in the air in the early summer morning, only the creaking of a spar, the scream of a seagull now and then.  How pale the lamps were growing on board the yachts.  Paler still, yellow, and dim, and blurred yonder in the town.  The eastward facing windows were golden with the rising sun.  Yes, this was morning.  The yachts were moving away yonder, majestical, swan-like, white sails shining against the blue.

She closed her eyes, and tried to sleep; but sleep would not come.  She was always listening—­listening for the dip of oars, listening for a snatch of melody from a mellow baritone whose every accent she knew so well.

It came at last, the sound her soul longed for.  She lay among her cushions with closed eyes, listening, drinking in those rich ripe notes as they came nearer and nearer, to the measure of dipping oars, ’La donna e mobile—­’

Nearer and nearer, until the little boat ground against the hull.  She lifted her heavy eyelids as Montesma leapt over the gunwale, almost into her arms.  He was at her side, kneeling by her low chair, kissing the little hands, chill with the freshness of morning.

‘My own, my very own,’ he murmured, passionately.

He cared no more for those copper-faced Helots yonder than if they had been made of wood.  He had fate in his own hands now, as it seemed to him.  He went to the skipper and gave him some orders in Spanish, and then the sails were unfurled, the Cayman spread her broad white wings, and moved off among those other yachts which were gliding, gliding, gliding out to sea, melting from Cowes Roads like a vision that fadeth with the broad light of morning.