width of the bay were a few scattered fishing-craft. She, leaning there against the grey of the stone, looking out through the wreaths of the leaves, never left her watch, never relaxed her gaze. She knew the tigers who slept yonder where Naples lay; she knew the cannon that would boom out through the sunny air if the errand of the Etoile were dreamed of; she knew the dungeons that yawned in the Vicaria for those who fled. She could not tell how much, how little, of the escape that she had organised was known to the Bourbon court; she could not tell that the government of Francis might not be only seeming to slumber, that it might crouch like a jungle-beast the surer to seize. She could not tell, even though to no living being had a word been whispered of her intent; she could not tell, for walls have ears where tyranny rules and priestcraft listens.
Any moment while the anchor was slowly wound upward, and the rigging of the yacht covered with eager sailors, the alarm-gun might boom from Naples, and the pursuit run down the schooner, boarding and swamping her in the midst of the smiling seas of the tranquil dawn.
At last she moved; her white canvas filled with a fair wind, her helm was turned straight westward,
