She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. The chapel was again crowded with visitors, and every eye—even that of Jonathan Wild who had come thither to deride him,—was fixed upon him. A siphon and a whisky bottle stood before him. "You know my motive well enough," answered Jonathan. She refused coffee, though she knew that anyhow she was doomed to a sleepless night. The work itself was refreshingly tonal, Sebastian observed. Sheppard prepared for church. Apparently he thought it very much worth while. There was nothing in his manner to suggest the misery of the preceding night. To hand the key back in silence was like offering a lie. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. Once she stopped in front of a mirror and looked at herself thoughtfully. Arrived at her side, it was soon evident, from the throng of seamen in Dutch dresses that displayed themselves, that her crew were on the alert, and a rope having been thrown down to the skipper, he speedily hoisted himself on deck. My best endeavours shall be used to bring you off, on the easy terms I have mentioned.
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