And “times” there were sure enough; but of that I had then small care and shook the loquacious rascal off so that he left me in peace.

First came the servants, trundling cart-loads of cases, which passed unnoticed; for the town bell had tolled the close of Sabbath, and Monday shipping had begun.

The cusp of a watery moon faded in the gray dawn streaks of a muffled sky, and at last came the chairmen, with Jack running alert.

From the chairs stepped the blackamoor, painted as white as paste.  Then a New Amsterdam gentleman slipped out from the curtains, followed by his page-boy and servants.

“Jack,” I asked, “where is Hortense?”

The page glanced from under curls.

“Dear Jack,” she whispered, standing high on her heels nigh as tall as the sailor lad.  And poor Jack Battle, not knowing how to play down, stood blushing, cap in hand, till she laughed a queer little laugh and, bidding him good-bye, told him to remember that she had the squirrel stuffed.

To me she said no word.  Her hand touched mine quick farewell.  The long lashes lifted.

There was a look on her face.

I ask no greater joy in Paradise than memory of that look.

* * * * * *

One lone, gray star hung over the masthead.  The ship careened across the billows till star and mast-top met.

Jack fetched a deep sigh.

“There be work for sailors in England,” he said.

In a flash I thought that I knew what he had meant by fools not loving in the right place.

“That were folly, Jack!  She hath her station!”

Jack Battle pointed to the fading steel point above the vanishing masthead.

“Doth looking hurt yon star?” asks Jack.

“Nay; but looking may strain the eyes; and the arrows of longing come back void.”

He answered nothing, and we lingered heavy hearted till the sun came up over the pillowed waves turning the tumbling waters to molten gold.

Between us and the fan-like rays behind the glossy billows—­was no ship.

Hortense was safe!

There was an end-all to undared hopes.

CHAPTER V

M. RADISSON AGAIN

“Good-bye to you, Ramsay,” said Jack abruptly.

“Where to, Jack?” I asked, bestirring myself.  I could no more go back to Eli Kirke.

But little Jack Battle was squirming his wooden clogs into the sand as he used to dig his toes, and he answered not a word.

“’Tis early yet for the Grand Banks, Jack.  Ben Gillam’s ship keeled mast over hull from being ice-logged last spring.  The spars were solid with frozen sleet from the crosstrees to the crow’s nest.  Your dories would be ice-logged for a month yet.”

“It—­it—­it aren’t the Grand Banks no more,” stammered Jack.

His manner arrested me.  The honest blue eyes were shifting and his toes at work in the sand.