Claudius had many things to think of too; but he was weary, for he had slept little of late, and not at all the night before; so he lay down and went over the scenes of the evening; but soon he fell asleep, and dreamed of her all the night long.

But the good yacht Streak held on her course bravely, quivering in the joy of her new-spread wings.  For what hulk is so dull and pitifully modern as not to feel how much gladder a thing it is to bound along with straining shrouds and singing sails and lifting keel to the fierce music of the wind than to be ever conscious of a burning sullenly-thudding power, put in her bosom by the unartistic beast, man, to make her grind her breathless way whither he would, and whither she would not?  Not the meanest mud-scow or harbour tug but would rather have a little mast and a bit of canvas in the fresh salt breeze than all the hundreds of land-born horse-powers and fire-driven cranks and rods that a haste-loving generation can cram into the belly of the poor craft.  How much more, then, must the beautiful clean-built Streak have rejoiced on that night when she felt the throbbing, gnashing pain of the engines stop suddenly in her breast, and was allowed to spread her beautiful wings out to be kissed and caressed all over by her old lover, the north-east wind?

And the grand crested waves came creeping up, curling over their dark heads till they bristled with phosphorescent foam; and some of them broke angrily upward, jealous that the wind alone might touch those gleaming sails.  But the wind roared at them in his wrath and drove them away, so that they sank back, afraid to fight with him; and he took the ship in his strong arms, and bore her fast and far that night, through many a heaving billow, and past many a breaking crest—­far over the untrodden paths, where footsteps are not, neither the defiling hand of man.

But within were beating hearts and the breathings of life.  The strong man stretched to his full length on his couch, mighty to see in his hard-earned sleep.  And the beautiful woman, with parted lips and wild tossing black hair; dark cheeks flushed with soft resting; hands laid together lovingly, as though, in the quiet night, the left hand would learn at last what good work the right hand has wrought; the fringe of long eyelashes drooping with the lids, to fold and keep the glorious light safe within, and—­ah yes, it is there!—­the single tear still clinging to its birthplace—­mortal impress of immortal suffering.  Is it not always there, the jewelled sign-manual of grief?

But the good yacht Streak held on her course bravely; and the north-easter laughed and sang as he buffeted the waves from the path of his love.

CHAPTER IX.

The Duke was the first to be astir in the morning, and as soon as he opened his eyes he made up his mind that the weather was improving.  The sea was still running high, but there was no sound of water breaking over the bulwarks.  He emerged from his deck-cabin, and took a sniff of the morning air.  A reef had been shaken out of the trysails, and the fore-topsail and jib were set.  He went aft, and found the mate just heaving the patent log.