After an hour of it, I was holding my breath against the lurches, like a sea-sick man against that bottomless fall of the ship’s bows on the ocean.  I had no pain,—­only an over whelming exhaustion,—­but the joy of her touch and her presence kept me from failing.  And though Aunt Lucy dozed, not a wink of sleep did my lady get through all of those weary twelve hours.  Always alert was she, solicitous beyond belief, scanning ever the dial of her watch to know when to give me brandy and physic; or reaching across to feel my temples for the fever.  The womanliness of that last motion was a thing for a man to wonder at.  But most marvellous of all was the instinct which told her of my chief sickening discomfort, —­of the leathery, travelled smell of the carriage.  As a relief for this she charged her pocket-napkin with a most delicate perfume, and held it to my face.

When we drew up to shift horses, Jack would come to the door to inquire if there was aught she wanted, and to know how I was bearing up.  And often Mrs. Manners likewise.  At first I was for talking with them, but this Dorothy would not allow.  Presently, indeed, it was beyond my power, and I could only smile feebly at my Lord when I heard Dolly asking him that the hostlers might be more quiet.  Toward morning a lethargy fell upon me.  Once I awoke when the lamp had burned low, to perceive the curtains drawn back, a black blotch of trees without, and the moonlight streaming in on my lady’s features.  With the crack of a whip I was off again.

When next consciousness came, the tarry, salt smell of a ship was in my nostrils, and I knew that we were embarked.  I lay in a clean bunk in a fair-sized and sun-washed cabin, and I heard the scraping of ropes and the tramp of feet on the deck above my head.  Framed against the irregular glass of the cabin window, which was greened by the water beyond, Dorothy and my Lord stood talking in whispers.

“Jack!” I said.

At the sound they turned and ran toward me, asking how I felt.

“I feel that words are very empty, Jack, to express such a gratitude as mine,” I answered.  “Twice you have saved me from death, you have paid my debts, and have been stanch to us both in our troubles.  And—­” The effort was beyond me, and I glanced appealingly at Dolly.

“And it is to you, dear Jack,” she finished, “it is to you alone that we owe the great joy of our lives.”

Her eyes were shining through her tears, and her smile was like the sun out of a rain-swept sky.  His Lordship took one of her hands in his own, and one of mine.  He scanned our faces in a long, lingering look.

“You will cherish her, Richard,” he said brokenly, “for her like is not to be found in this world.  I knew her worth when first she came to London, as arrant a baggage as ever led man a dance.  I saw then that a great love alone was needed to make her the highest among women, and from the night I fought with you at the Coffee House I have felt upon whom that love would fall.  O thou of little faith,” he cried, “what little I may have done has been for her.  No, Richard, you do not deserve her, but I would rather think of her as your wife than that of any man living.”