Larpent’s face was grim.  “I make no claim, my lord,” he said.  “But I have sworn to do my best for her.  I shall keep that oath of mine.”

“Meaning?” said Saltash.

The sailor’s look met his squarely.  “You know what I mean,” he said.

Saltash began to grin.  “A fight to a finish, what?  I’m sorry, mon ami.  But I’ve got you beaten at the start.  Shall I tell you how you can best keep that somewhat rash oath of yours?”

“Well?” The word fell brief and uncompromising.  Larpent’s face was as carved granite.

Saltash thrust forth a sudden hand and took him by the shoulder.  “Just by effacing yourself, mon vieux,” he said lightly.  “Go back to The Blue Moon, take her to Fairharbour, and await my orders there!”

It was carelessly, even jestingly, spoken, but a certain authority lurked behind the words.  Charles Rex knew how to assert his kingship upon occasion, knew also how to temper it with the touch of friendship.

Larpent’s look did not waver, but some of the grimness went from it.  Neither anger nor indignation had any place here.  He continued to look Saltash straight in the face.

“And that would be keeping my oath?” he said.

“Even so,” said Saltash.

“You mean,” Larpent spoke with slow emphasis, “that to leave her where she now is, is to leave her in safe and honourable keeping?”

The old mocking smile gleamed in Saltash’s eyes.  “Yes, I mean that,” he said.  “Do you believe me, Larpent?”

“Believe you, my lord?” Larpent seemed to hesitate.

The hand that held him moved with a hint of impatience.  “I am asking,” said Saltash royally, “if you consider that my protection is adequate for—­my wife.”

“Your—­wife!” Larpent started in sharp surprise.  “Your wife, did you say?”

Saltash broke into a chuckle and dropped his hand from his captain’s shoulder.  “Yes, just that,” he said.  “You are behind the times, my friend.  Are you going to congratulate me?  We were married four days ago.”

Larpent’s hand came out to him abruptly.  “It’s the best thing you’ve ever done, my lord,” he said.  “And you will never regret it.”

“What makes you say that?” said Saltash curiously.

Their hands gripped and fell apart.  Larpent answered him in the brief fashion of the man whose words are few.  “Mainly because you loved her enough to marry her when you could have had her without.”

Saltash’s laugh had the old derisive ring but there was no corresponding gleam of mockery in his eyes as he turned carelessly aside.  “What is this thing called love?” he said.

CHAPTER VII

THE REFUGEE