They carried her on to the steam-yacht, and down to the cabin, where there was ample accommodation and some luxury, although not the elegance of Bond Street upholstery.  Rilboche, Lady Kirkbank, Kibble, luggage of all kinds were transferred from one yacht to the other, even to the vellum bound Keats which lay face downwards on the deck, just where Lesbia had flung it when the Cayman was boarded.  The crew of the steam-yacht Philomel helped in the transfer:  there were plenty of hands, and the work was done quickly; while the Meztizoes, Yucatekes, Caribs, or whatever they were, looked on and grinned; and while Montesma stood leaning against the mast, with folded arms and sombre brow, a cigarette between his lips.

When the women and all their belongings were on board the Philomel, Lord Hartfield addressed himself to Montesma.

’If you consider yourself entitled to call me to account for this evening’s work you know where to find me,’ he said.

Montesma shrugged his shoulders, and threw away his cigarette with a contemptuous gesture.

’Ce n’est pas la peine,’ he said; ’I am a dead shot, and should be pretty sure to send a bullet through you if you gave me the chance; but I should not be any nearer winning her if I killed you:  and it is she and she only that I want.  You may think me an adventurer—­swindler—­gambler—­slave-dealer—­what you will—­but I love her as I never thought to love a woman, and I should have been true as steel, if she had been plucky enough to trust me.  But, as I told her an hour ago, women have not lion hearts.  They can talk tall while the sky is clear and the sun shines, but at the first crack of thunder—­va te promener.’

‘If you have killed her—­’ began Hartfield.

’Killed her!  No.  Some small bloodvessel burst in the agitation of that terrible scene.  She will be well in a week, and she will forget me.  But I shall not forget her.  She is the one flower that has sprung on the barren plain of my life.  She was my Picciola.’

He turned his back on Lord Hartfield and walked to the other end of the deck.  Something in his face, in the vibration of his deep voice, convinced Hartfield of his truth.  A bad man undoubtedly—­steeped to the lips in evil—­and yet so far true that he had passionately, deeply, devotedly loved this one woman.

It was the dead of night when Lesbia recovered consciousness, and even then she lay silent, taking no heed of those around her, in a state of utter prostration.  Kibble nursed her carefully, tenderly, all through the night; Maulevrier hardly left the cabin, and Lady Kirkbank, always more or less a victim to the agonies of sea-sickness, still found time to utter lamentations and wailings over the ruin of her protegee’s fortune.

‘Never had a girl such a chance,’ she moaned.  ’Quite the best match in society.  The house in Park Lane alone cost a fortune.  Her diamonds would have been the finest in London.’