THE LOVE OF MONSIEUR
better than all the proofs she had discovered of the wrong that had been done him.
She found him, by the light of a lantern, directing the repair of a gun-carriage upon the poop. She addressed him timidly.
“Monsieur—er—Bras-de-Fer—” she began.
He raised his head and turned abruptly towards her, and the sense of security from rebuke she had counted upon, in the presence of the men, fled away at the sight of his frowning countenance.
“What are you doing here, madame?” he said, harshly. “The deck is no place for you. Go below at once or—”
But with never a glance at the grinning fellows at her elbow, she looked him steadily in the eyes as she replied, with a will and spirit which surprised even herself:
“I shall not, monsieur.” The voice was low and even. But the small hands were clenched, her head was tossed a little upon one side, and every line of her lithe body, which swung rhythmically to the motion of the sliding deck, spoke of invincible courage and determination. Bras-
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