purposely--a pride which must have accumulated in his blood through
countless generations. She struck with no uncertain hand.

"Yes," he said, slowly; "it is to be regretted. Is it because I am
the son of a nameless father and only the mate of 'The Last Hope'?"

"If you were before the mast--" she answered--"if you were a King,
it would make no difference. It is simply because I do not care for
you in that way."

"You do not care for me--in that way," he echoed, with a laugh,
which made her move as if she were shrinking. "Well, there is
nothing more to be said to that."

He looked at her slowly, and then took off his cap as if to bid her
good-bye. But he forgot to replace it, and he went away with the
cap in his hand. She heard the clink of a chain as he loosed his
boat.



CHAPTER X. IN THE ITALIAN HOUSE



The Abbe Touvent was not a courageous man, and the perspiration,
induced by the climb from the high-road up that which had once been
the ramp to the Chateau of Gemosac, ran cold when he had turned the
key in the rusty lock of the great gate. It was not a dark night,
for the moon sailed serenely behind fleecy clouds, but the shadows