wish you once expressed to my lord, your father, that you could sleep on board. Now you might make a voyage of many days in her."
"Oh, Malcolm!" was all Florimel could answer. She was too pleased to think as yet of any of the thousand questions that might naturally have followed.
"Why, you've got the 'Arabian Nights' and all my favorite books there!" she said at length. "How long shall we have before we get among the ships again?"
She fancied she had given orders to return, and that the boat had been put about. "A good many hours, my lady," answered Malcolm.
"Ah, of course!" she returned: "it takes much longer against wind and tide. But my time is my own," she added, rather in the manner of one asserting a freedom she did not feel, "and I don't see why I should trouble myself. It will make some to-do, I dare say, if I don't appear at dinner, but it won't do anybody any harm. They wouldn't break their hearts if they never saw me again."
"Not one of them, my lady," said Malcolm.
She lifted her head sharply, but took no further notice of his remark.
"I won't be plagued any more," she said, holding counsel with herself, but intending Malcolm to hear. "I will break with them rather. Why should I not be as free as Clementina? She comes and goes when and where she likes, and does what she pleases."
"Why, indeed?" said Malcolm; and a pause followed, during which Florimel stood apparently thinking, but in reality growing sleepy.
"I will lie down a little," she said, "with one of those lovely books."
The excitement, the air, and the pleasure generally had wearied her. Nothing could have suited Malcolm better. He left her. She went to her berth and fell fast asleep.
When she woke it was some time before she could think where she was. A strange, ghostly light was about her, in which she could see nothing plain, but the motion helped her to understand. She rose and crept to the companion-ladder, and up on deck. Wonder upon wonder! A clear full moon reigned high in the heavens, and below there was nothing but water, gleaming with her molten face, or rushing past the boat lead-colored, grey and white. Here and there a vessel, a snow-cloud of sails, would glide between them and the moon, and turn black from truck to water-line. The mast of the Pysche had shot up to its full height; the reef-points of the mainsail were loose and the gaff was crowned with its topsail; foresail and jib were full, and she was flying as if her soul thirsted within her after infinite spaces. Yet what more could she want? All around her was wave rushing upon wave, and above her blue heaven and regnant moon. Florimel gave a great sigh of delight.
But what did it, what could it, mean? What was Malcolm about? Where was he taking her? What would London say to such an escapade extraordinary? Lady Bellair would be the first to believe she had run away with her groom — she knew so many instances of that sort of thing — and Lord Liftore would be the next. It was too bad of Malcolm! But she did not feel very angry with him notwithstanding, for had he not done it to give her pleasure? And assuredly he had not failed. He knew better than any one how to please her — better even than Lenorme.
She looked around her. No one was to be seen but Davy, who was steering. The mainsail hid the men, and Rose, having been on deck for two or three hours, was again below. She turned to Davy. But the boy had been schooled, and only answered, "I maunna say naething sae lang 's I'm steerin', mem."
She called Malcolm. He was beside her ere his name had left her lips. The boy's reply had irritated her, and coming upon this sudden and utter change in her circumstances, made her feel as one no longer lady of herself and her people, but a prisoner. "Once more, what does this mean, Malcolm?" she said in high displeasure. "You have deceived me shamefully! You left me to believe we were on our way back to London, and here we are out at sea! Am I no longer your mistress? Am I a child, to be taken where you please? And what, pray, is to become of the horses you left at Mr. Lenorme's?"
Malcolm was glad of a question he was prepared to answer: "They are in their own stalls by this time, my lady. I took care of that."
"Then it was all a trick to carry me off against my will!" she cried with growing indignation.
"Hardly against your will, my lady," said Malcolm, embarrassed and thoughtful, in a tone deprecating and apologetic.
"Utterly against my will!" insisted Florimel. "Could I ever have consented
