“Changed my plans.  We’ll put out in twelve days.  Everything shipshape?”

“Up to the buntin’, sir, and down to her keel.  I sh’d say about six-hundred tons; an’ mebbe twelve days instead of fourteen.  An’ what’ll be our course after Madeery, sir?”

“Ajaccio, Corsica.”

“Yessir.”

If the admiral had said the Antarctic, Flanagan would never have batted an eye.

“You have spoken the crew?”

“Yessir; deep-sea men, too, sir.  Halloran ‘ll have th’ injins as us’l, sir.  Shall I run ‘er up t’ N’ York fer provisions?  I got your list.”

“Triple the order.  I’ll take care of the wine and tobacco.”

“All right, sir.”

“That will be all.  Have a cigar.”

“Thank you, sir.  What’s the trouble?” extending a pudgy hand toward the chimney.

“I’ll tell you all about that later.  Send up that man Donovan again.”  It occurred to the admiral that it would not be a bad plan to cover Mr. Donovan’s palm.  They had forgotten all about him.  He had overheard.

Very carefully the captain put away the cigar and journeyed back to the village.  He regretted Corsica.  He hated Dagos, and Corsica was Dago; thieves and cut-throats, all of them.

This long time Breitmann had despatched his letters and gone to his room, where he remained till dinner.  He was a servant in the house.  He must not forget that.  He had been worse things than this, and still he had not forgotten.  He had felt the blush of shame, yet he had remembered, and white anger had embossed the dull scars; it was impossible that he should forget.

He had grown accustomed, even in this short time, to the window overlooking the sea, and he leaned that late afternoon with his arms resting on the part where the two frames joined and locked.  The sea was blue and gentle breasted.  Flocks of gulls circled the little harbor and land-birds ventured daringly forth.

With what infinite care and patience had he gained this place!  What struggles had ensued!  Like one of yonder birds he had been blown about, but even with his eyes hunting for this resting.  He had found it and about lost it.  A day or so later!  He had come to rob, to lie, to pillage, any method to gain his end; and fate had led him over this threshold without dishonor, ironically.  Even for that, thank God!

Dimly he heard Fitzgerald whistling in his room across.  The sound entered his ear, but not his trend of thought.  God in Heaven what a small place this earth was!  In his hand, tightly clutched, was a ball of paper, damp from the sweat of his palm.  He had gnawed it, he had pressed it in despair.  Cathewe was a man, and he was not afraid of any man living.  Besides, men rarely became tellers of tales.  But the woman:  Hildegarde von Mitter!  How to meet her, how to look into her great eyes, how to hear the sound of her voice!

He flung the ball of paper into the corner.  She could break him as one breaks a dry and brittle reed.