Frenchwoman. As they reached the broken edge of the barrens above
Chance Along she spoke for the third time.

"In London I sang before the Queen," she said, this time without raising
her pallid lids. Her lips scarcely moved. Her voice was low and faint,
but clear as the chiming of a silver bell. "And now I go to my own
city--to New York--to sing. They will listen now, for I am famous. You
will be well paid for what you have done for me."

The skipper could make little enough of this talk of singing before the
Queen; but he understood the mention of making payment for his services,
and his bitter pride flared up. He gripped the edge of the hammock
roughly.

"Would ye be payin' me for this?" he questioned. "Would ye, I say? Nay,
not ye nor the Queen herself! I have money enough! I bes master o' this
harbor!"

She opened her wonderful, clear, sea-eyes at that, full upon his flushed
face, and he saw the clear cross-lights in their depths. She regarded
him calmly, with a suggestion of mocking interest, until his own glance
wavered and turned aside. He felt again the surging of his heart's
blood--but now, across and through the surging, a chill as of fear. The
flush of offended pride faded from his cheeks.

"Of course I shall pay you for saving my life," she said, coolly and
conclusively.

The skipper was not accustomed to such treatment, even from a woman; but
without a word by way of retort he steadied the hammock in its descent