Three Weeks

Paul's impatience knew no bounds. The concentrated pent-up longing of all these months was animating him. To see his lady again! To clasp her! To kiss her--to kneel to her--and give her homage and worship. And to behold his little son. Always he carried the minute flaxen curl in a locket, and often he had looked at it, and tried to picture the wee head from which it had been cut. But she--his love--would bring his son to him--and perhaps let him hold him in his arms. Ah! he shut his eyes and imagined the tender scene. Would she be changed? Should he see the traces of suffering? But he would caress all memory of pain away, and surely this meeting would only be the forerunner of others to come. Fate could never intend such deep, true love as theirs to be apart. An exaltation uplifted him. And if his lady were a Queen, and wore a crown, he felt himself the greatest king on earth, for was not he the absolute ruler of her heart? And who could wish for a more glorious kingdom?

The hours from Constantinople seemed longer than the whole voyage. He could hardly keep his attention to talk coherently about ordinary things at meals, and his father and Mark Grigsby left him practically alone.

At last, at last, the 29th of May dawned, boiling hot and cloudlessly fair.

For obvious reasons they stayed beyond sight of the coast until darkness fell, and then came close inshore. It was a starlit night, with not a breath of air, and no moon would illuminate their whereabouts.

Paul dressed with the greatest care; never had he been more particular over his toilet. Tompson found him exigeant!

He had broadened and filled out in the past year, and his fair face was tanned, and blooming with health and excitement.

"The best-looking young devil a woman's eye could light on!" Mark Grigsby said, as he and Sir Charles watched him descend the gangway to the boat, when the impatiently awaited signal had been given.

"God keep him safe, Grig," was all Sir Charles could mutter, with a grunt in his throat.

The maddest excitement was racing through Paul, as he held the tiller-ropes and made straight for the light. And once he felt in his pocket to assure himself he had not forgotten Dmitry's pistol, which he had cleaned and loaded himself that afternoon.

He knew this adventure might be a dangerous one, simple as it looked superficially, and now he was an expert revolver shot, thanks to constant practice.

The light proved to be in a little sheltered cove, with a small landing-stage. And--yes--the man who held it was the Kalmuck, Vasili.