“Yonder was to have been my last sunrise,” he remarked grimly, nodding backward across his shoulder. “’Tis about the hour now for those in the hands of the Dons to have their backs against the wall.”

I caught a sound as of a partially suppressed sob behind me, but before I could turn sufficiently to ascertain the cause, the Chevalier sprang past, rocking the little boat furiously, and my ears overheard that which caused me to keep my face set the other way.

“Eloise!” he exclaimed exultantly.  “Are you here, little wife?  Mon Dieu!  I dreamed it not; yet should have known you would never leave such duty to the slaves.”

“I was simply compelled to come,” she answered, and I could mark her voice falter.  “Do not be angry with me.  What have I now left except you?  The rising of the sun sealed my father’s fate.”

“True,” he admitted soberly, lifting his hat in grave gesture.  “I feel like a condemned coward, my name a byword for the rabble, being here in such comparative safety, when, in honor, I should be lying beside my comrades.”

“Nay; say not that!  You are young; much of life, of usefulness, lies before you.  I knew that at the best only one destined victim might be plucked from the Spaniard’s vengeance.  It was at his approval I made choice of you.  My father is robbed of but few years, while you are too young to die.  Somewhere—­God guiding—­we shall find a home again, and days of peace.”

“Ay! you were ever of brave heart, Eloise.  But let us not forget we yet remain in reach of Spanish claws, and they are merciless.  Go back to the tiller a while, and let me lay hold upon this oar; ’tis heavy work for such soft hands as yours.  Point the course direct for the cane island—­you must remember it; you were there once with me.”

I fail to recall even glancing into her face as she sat fronting me, her hands upon the tiller bar.  I durst not, fearing some telltale expression within my eyes might bring her added pain.  So I sat with glance downcast upon the planks, while tugging doggedly at the oar with all my strength, feeling that same sunrise had brought with it my own death warrant.  So dull and heavy grew my heart with lonely weariness, I cannot guess how long we pulled before the boat’s nose ran up upon the shore, and De Noyan, springing overboard, dragged it well beyond view among the thick cane.

“We shall be safe enough here,” he exclaimed lightly, gazing about with approval.  “Come, Eloise, step on this dry sand, for you must be greatly cramped from so tedious a passage.”

As I arose, the more easily to permit her passing me in the narrow space, she suddenly grasped both my hands within her own; then my eyes glanced up once more to meet hers, dark with unshed tears.

“Do not think, Geoffrey Benteen,” she said brokenly, her voice vibrating with emotion, “that I fail to realize what this means to you.  Your troubled face has been a silent accuser of me this hour past.  But I thank you; you have proven yourself a man, such a man as I have ever believed you to be.  May the good God bless you and bring you peace.”