“We are going through the channel into the bay of Todos Santos,” was the brief reply vouchsafed her by Hurlstone.

“But why can’t we remain here and wait for Mr. Brimmer?” she asked indignantly.

“Because,” responded Hurlstone grimly, “the Excelsior is expected off the Presidio to-morrow morning to aid the insurgents.”

“You don’t mean to say that Miss Chubb and myself are to be put in the attitude of arraying ourselves against the constituted authorities—­and, perhaps, Mr. Brimmer himself?” asked Mrs. Brimmer, in genuine alarm.

“It looks so,” said Hurlstone, a little maliciously; “but, no doubt, your husband and the Senor will arrange it amicably.”

To Mrs. Markham and Miss Keene he explained more satisfactorily that the unexpected disaffection of the Indians had obliged Perkins to so far change his plans as to disembark his entire force from the Excelsior, and leave her with only the complement of men necessary to navigate her through the channel of Todos Santos, where she would peacefully await his orders, or receive his men in case of defeat.

Nevertheless, as the night was nearly spent, Mrs. Markham and Eleanor preferred to await the coming day on deck, and watch the progress of the Excelsior through the mysterious channel.  In a few moments the barque began to feel the combined influence of the tide and the slight morning breeze, and, after rounding an invisible point, she presently rose and fell on the larger ocean swell.  The pilot, whom Hurlstone recognized as the former third mate of the Excelsior, appeared to understand the passage perfectly; and even Hurlstone and the ladies, who had through eight months’ experience become accustomed to the luminous obscurity of Todos Santos, could detect the faint looming of the headland at the entrance.  The same soothing silence, even the same lulling of the unseen surf, which broke in gentle undulations over the bar, and seemed to lift the barque in rocking buoyancy over the slight obstruction, came back to them as on the day of their fateful advent.  The low orders of the pilot, the cry of the leadsman in the chains, were but a part of the restful past.

Under the combined influence of the hour and the climate, the conversation fell into monosyllables, and Mrs. Markham dozed.  The lovers sat silently together, but the memory of a kiss was between them.  It spanned the gulf of the past with an airy bridge, over which their secret thoughts and fancies passed and repassed with a delicious security; henceforth they could not flee from that memory, even if they wished; they read it in each other’s lightest glance; they felt it in the passing touch of each other’s hands; it lingered, with vague tenderness, on the most trivial interchange of thought.  Yet they spoke a little of the future.  Eleanor believed that her brother would not object to their union; he had spoken of entering into business at Todos Santos, and perhaps when peace and security were restored they