have tried, without even the pitiable excuse of insanity.  He had seen it all only too clearly from the very beginning, and he had deliberately and with open eyes brought disgrace, ruin, and death—­unless he could escape—­upon himself, and utter humiliation to her whom his love should have prompted him to save at all cost.  If Mary could only have disguised herself to look like a man they might have succeeded, but that little “if” was larger than Paul’s church, and blocked the road as completely as if it had been a word of twenty syllables.

When the princess stepped ashore it seemed to her as if the heart in her breast was a different and separate organ from the one she had carried aboard.

As the boat put off again for the ship, its crew gave a cheer coupled with some vile advice, for which Brandon would gladly have run them through, each and every one.  He had to swallow his chagrin and anger, and really blamed no one but himself, though it was torture to him that this girl should be subjected to such insults, and he powerless to avenge them.  The news had spread from the wharf like wildfire, and on their way back to the Bow and String, there came from small boys and hidden voices such exclamations as:  “Look at the woman in man’s clothing;” “Isn’t he a beautiful man?” “Look at him blush;” and others too coarse to be repeated.  Imagine the humiliating situation, from which there was no escape.

At last they reached the inn, whither their chests soon followed them, sent by Bradhurst, together with their passage money, which he very honestly refunded.

Mary soon donned her woman’s attire, of which she had a supply in her chest, and at least felt more comfortable without the jack-boots.  She had made her toilet alone for the first time in her life, having no maid to help her, and wept as she dressed, for this disappointment was like plucking the very heart out of her.  Her hope had been so high that the fall was all the harder.  Nay, even more; hope had become fruition to her when they were once a-shipboard, and failure right at the door of success made it doubly hard to bear.  It crushed her, and, where before had been hope and confidence, was nothing now but despair.  Like all people with a great capacity for elation, when she sank she touched the bottom.  Alas!  Mary, the unconquerable, was down at last.

This failure meant so much to her; it meant that she would never be Brandon’s wife, but would go to France to endure the dreaded old Frenchman.  At that thought a recoil came.  Her spirit asserted itself, and she stamped her foot and swore upon her soul it should never be; never! never! so long as she had strength to fight or voice to cry, “No.”  The thought of this marriage and of the loss of Brandon was painful enough, but there came another, entirely new to her and infinitely worse.

Hastily arranging her dress, she went in search of Brandon, whom she quickly found and took to her room.