The two men who came on deck at the same moment did not speak one to the other. Baggin was pale; there were dark circles about his eyes; he looked like a man who had not slept. But Count Poltavo was unperturbed.
Clear-eyed, shaven, not unusually pallid, he woke as from a pleasant dream, and appeared on deck immaculate from point of shoe to fingernail.
All the morning preparations were going on. Ammunition came up from the magazine, dilatory quartermasters swung out guns; on the masthead was an under-officer armed with a telescope.
He was the principal object of interest to the men on the quarterdeck. Every few minutes their eyes would go sweeping aloft.
Beyond the curtest salutations, neither the captain, Baggin, nor the calm Poltavo spoke. In Baggin’s heart grew a new terror, and he avoided the count.
The sun beat down on the stretch of awning that protected the privileged three, but, for some reason, Baggin did not feel the heat. He had a something on his mind; a question to ask; and at last he summoned his resolution to put it. He walked over to where the count sat reading.
“Ivan,” he said — he had never so addressed him before— “is the end near?”
The count had raised his clear eyes when the other had come toward him; he smiled.
“Which variety of end?” he asked.
“There is only one variety,” said Baggin steadily. “There is only one thing in the world that counts, and that is life.”
“Not money?” asked the Russian, with a faint, ironical smile.
“Not money,” repeated Baggin. “Least of all, money — but life!”
Poltavo arose. He had seen the flutter of a white skirt at the far end of the promenade-deck.
“Life,” he said, with soft deliberateness, “is the least of all gifts, my friend. It is of no more consequence than the crystal of snow which is lost in the foul mud beneath our feet, or the drop of dew which is burned up by the. ardent rays of the sun.” He turned upon his heel.
The American plucked at his sleeve. “Then, what counts?” he demanded hoarsely.
“Nothing!” There was a certain mysticism in the count’s gentle smile. “We are bewildered guests. Listen to the words of one of your own great countrymen.” He quoted in a musical voice, looking out across the water:
I was not asked if I should like to come,
I have not seen my host here since I came,
Or had a word of welcome in his name.
Some say that we shall never see him, and some
That we shall see him elsewhere, and then know
Why we were bid.
“For myself” — he shrugged his shoulders with an expressive gesture—” it does not matter. I have been well amusé.” He strolled forward. Doris, dressed all in white, was leaning against the rail. She drank in the fresh morning air eagerly. The wind had brought a faint tinge of colour to her cheeks, and the blue ribbon which she had bound about her hair to protect it from the ravages of the wind lent her an air almost of gaiety, which the count was not slow to observe.
“It is a glorious day,” he said cheerfully.
“And your father is better. I can read the good news in your face.”
He ranged himself beside her, his back against the rail, so that his eyes took in every aspect of her face and figure.
“He is asleep,” she returned in a low voice, “and so I ventured out for a breath of fresh air. He was — delirious — through the night.”
He looked at her reproachfully. “And you watched with him all night?”
She nodded.
“You might, at least, have permitted me to divide the time with you.”
The girl was silent.
“Is he alone — now?” he asked abruptly.
A certain quality in his tones made her glance up swiftly.
“I — I think so,” she faltered. “There is — danger?”
“It is just as well to have a guard,” he said drily. “In case the — ah! — delirium should return.”
He beckoned to one of the sailors, and spoke to him in Spanish.
As the man retreated, she turned to him, her blue eyes swimming in a bright mist of tears.
“You are very good!” she murmured.
“It is nothing,” he said simply. “Will you come up on the hurricane-deck? I have a desire for wide sweeps — great distances to-day.”
She hesitated.
“Your father is safe,” he urged. “I have set two men at his door. And I have something to say to you.”
“I also have something to say to you,” she answered, with a queer little laugh.
They did not speak again until he had placed her in a luxurious steamer-chair, protected from the rays of the sun by a gay striped awning, and seated himself beside her.
Doris folded her hands in her lap, and gazed across the shimmering water. Slowly her eyes came back, and rested upon the figure beside her. She drew from about her neck a slender gold chain, from which depended a locket, and a ring, set quaintly with a ruby.
“Count Poltavo,” she said, in a low, clear tone, “do you remember giving me this ring?”
“Yes.” His face had paled slightly, and a light came into his eyes.
“And — and the pledge which I made you then?”
“I recall no pledge, dear lady.”
She gave him a wide, deep look.
“I bound myself to answer any question you should wish to ask — if you should save my father from Mr. Baggin. Yesterday, that came to pass. During a lucid interval in the night, my father—” — her voice quivered on the word— “spoke of you, but brokenly, and I did not completely understand until you set the guard about his door.”
The count made as if to speak, but she raised a protesting hand. “So now you have fulfilled your pledge to me, and I “ — she lifted her head proudly—” stand ready to redeem mine.”
He looked at her strangely. “You would marry me?”
“Yes.”
Her lips articulated the word with difficulty. Her eyes were upon her hands, and her hands plaited nervously a fold of her white gown.
“Doris!” He
