Lucy Fountain’s appearance and manner bore out her words.  Talboys was white; even David and Jack showed some signs of a night of watching and anxiety; but the young lady’s cheek was red and fresh, her eye bright, and she shone with an inspired and sprightly ardor that was never seen, or never observed in her before.  They had found the way to put her blood up, after all—­the blood of the Funteyns.  Such are thoroughbreds:  they rise with the occasion; snobs descend as the situation rises.  See that straight-necked, small-nosed mare stepping delicately on the turnpike:  why, it is Languor in person, picking its way among eggs.  Now the hounds cry and the horn rings.  Put her at timber, stream, and plowed field in pleasing rotation, and see her now:  up ears; open nostril; nerves steel; heart immovable; eye of fire; foot of wind.  And ho! there!  What stuck in that last arable, dead stiff as the Rosinantes in Trafalgar Square, all but one limb, which goes like a water-wagtail’s?  Why, by Jove! if it isn’t the hero of the turnpike road:  the gallant, impatient, foaming, champing, space-devouring, curveting cocktail.

Out of consideration for her male companions’ infirmities, and observing that they were ashamed to take needful rest while she remained on deck, Lucy at length retired to her cabin.

She slept a good many hours, and was awakened at last by the rocking of the sloop.  The wind had fallen gently, but it had also changed to due east, which brought a heavy ground-swell round the point into their little haven.  Lucy made her toilet, and came on deck blooming like a rose.  The first person she encountered was Mr. Talboys.  She saluted him cordially, and then inquired for their companions.

“Oh, they are gone.”

“Gone!  What do you mean?”

“Sailed half an hour ago.  Look, there is the boat coasting the island.  No, not that way—­westward; out there, just weathering that point Don’t you see?”

“Are they making a tour of the island, then?”

Here the little Anglo-Frank put in his word.  “No, ma’ainselle, gone to catch sheep bound for ze East Indeeze.”

“Gone! gone! for good?” and Lucy turned very pale.  The next moment offended pride sent the blood rushing to her brow.  “That is just like Mr. Dodd; there is not another gentleman in the world would have had the ill-breeding to go off like that to India without even bidding us good-morning or good-by.  Did he bid you good-by, Mr. Talboys?”

“No.”

“There, now, it is insolent—­it is barbarous.”  Her vexation at the affront David had put on Mr. Talboys soon passed into indignation.  “This was done to insult—­to humiliate us.  A noble revenge.  You know we used sometimes to quiz him a little ashore, especially you; so now, out of spite, he has saved our lives, and then turned his back arrogantly upon us before we could express our gratitude; that is as much as to say he values us as so many dogs or cats, flings us our lives haughtily, and then turned his back disdainfully on us.  Life is not worth having when given so insultingly.”