All that her brain presented in the way of record of the weeks which followed, were, first, a series of dim pictures of a hurried journey, partaking of the nature of a flight from some impending danger.  Her father, she remembered, held her almost constantly against his breast, while they were on this journey, so tightly that the clasp of his strong arms was, sometimes, almost painful, and watched continually from carriage windows, from the deck of a small vessel, and, afterwards, from the windows of a railway train, when they paused at stations in the pleasant English country, as if he ever feared that someone would appear to intercept them and carry her away from him.  Then her home had been of a kind new to her—­the lodging-house.  Instead of being in the midst of splendid lawns and mighty trees, she had been hedged about by grimy streets and dull brick buildings; the air which had been all a-sparkle for her in her babyhood, was, through her youth, dull, smoke-grimed, fog-soaked; for roomy spaciousness and gentle luxury had been exchanged the dinginess and squalor of the place in Soho.  The occasional visits to the theatre where her father played the flute, now and then a Sunday walk with him when the weather was sufficiently urbane (marred, always, by his peering watch of every passing face, which had never been rewarded till they met the staring stranger in Hyde Park) had been almost the only variations of a dull routine of life, until this journey had begun which had just brought them to the mighty New World harbor.  She was vastly puzzled by existence as she stood there in the stuffy crowd and let her mind roam back in retrospect.  Her life was all a mystery to her.

This journey was the one tremendous episode of her career; her life in London had been singularly bare of real events; there had only been her daily grind at books which her father wished to have her diligently study, the bi-weekly visits of a woman who had taught her languages and needlework and never talked of anything but youth and romance, although she, herself, was old, and, presumably, beyond the pale of romance.  Except for this old woman and the landlady of the cheap lodging-house she had had no friends except poor M’riar.

From such a dull existence, to be thrust into the whirl of this amazing voyage, had been very wonderful, for what might not the new life in the new land mean?  Anything, to her young and keen imagination.  In this marvelous new country the old Frenchwoman had assured her women were as free as men.  What would such freedom bring to her?  Riches, possibly, would here reward her father for his artistry upon the flute, and luxuries surround them both, in consequence.  And romance!  Her heart began to flutter at mere thought of the word, and her mind, against her modest maiden will, involuntarily turned to the youth who had so splendidly sprung to their rescue from the malign Moresco.  Ah, how strong, how handsome he had been as he had thrown himself upon the big Italian!