It was a year now since he had left Paris to go on board “The Conquest,” a whole year.

And he had not received a single letter from Henrietta,—­not one.  Every time a vessel arrived from France with despatches, his hopes revived; and every time they were disappointed.

“Well,” he would say to himself, “I can wait for the next.”  And then he began counting the days.  Then it arrived at last, this long-expected ship, and never, never once brought a letter from Henrietta—­

How could this silence be explained?  What strange events could have happened?  What must he think, hope, fear?

To be chained by honor to a place a thousand leagues from the woman he loved to distraction, to know nothing about her, her life, her actions and her thoughts, to be reduced to such extreme wretchedness, to doubt—­

Daniel would have been much less unhappy if some one had suddenly come and told him, “Miss Ville-Handry is no more.”

Yes, less unhappy; for true love in its savage selfishness suffers less from death than from treason.  If Henrietta had died, Daniel would have been crushed; and maybe despair would have driven him to extreme measures; but he would have been relieved of that horrible struggle within him, between his faith in the promises of his beloved and certain suspicions, which caused his hair to stand on end.

But he knew that she was alive; for there was hardly a vessel coming from France or from England which did not bring him a letter from Maxime, or from the Countess Sarah.  For Sarah insisted upon writing to him, as if there existed a mysterious bond between them, which she defied him to break.

“I obey,” she said, “an impulse more powerful than reason and will alike.  It is stronger than I am, stronger than all things else; I must write to you, I cannot help it.”

At another time she said,—­

“Do you remember that evening, O Daniel! when, pressing Sarah Brandon to your heart, you swore to be hers forever?  The Countess Ville-Handry cannot forget it.”

Under the most indifferent words there seemed to palpitate and to struggle a passion which was but partially restrained, and ever on the point of breaking forth.  Her letters read like the conversations of timid lovers, who talk about the rain and the weather in a tone of voice trembling with desire, and with looks burning with passion.

“Could she really be in love with me?” Daniel thought, “and could that be her punishment?”

Then, again, swearing, like the roughest of his men, he added,—­

“Am I to be a fool forever?  Is it not quite clear that this wicked woman only tries to put my suspicions to sleep?  She is evidently preparing for her defence, in case the rascal who attempted my life should be caught, and compromise her by his confessions.”