"Night-jar," he said, looking at her an instant, and then away again, and she knew, at that moment, that he had read the message in her eyes a little while before, and he did not despise her for it, he knew and understood, because he felt as she did, the same flame, the same longing. But because she was a woman and he a man these things would never be admitted to one another; they were both bound by a strange reserve until their moment came, which might be to-morrow, or the day after, or never-the matter was not of their own choosing.

He pushed on down stream without a word, and presently they came to the entrance of the creek, where the trees crowded to the water's edge, and edging up close in-shore into the narrow channel they came to a little clearing in the woods where there had once been a quay, and he rested on his paddles and said: "This?"

"Yes," she answered, and he pushed the nose of the boat into the soft mud, and they climbed ashore.

He pulled the boat out of the tide, and then reached for his knife, and kneeling beside the water cleaned the fish, calling over his shoulder for Dona to build the fire.

She found some dry twigs, under the trees, and broke them across her knee, her dress torn now and hopelessly crumpled, and she thought, laughing to herself, of Lord Godolphin and his lady, and their stare of bewilderment could they see her now, no better than a travelling gypsy woman, with all a gypsy's primitive feelings too, and a traitor to her country into the bargain.

She built the sticks, one against the other. He came up from the water's edge, having cleaned the fish, and knelt beside the fire, with his flint and tinder, and slowly kindled the flame, which came in a little flash at first, and then burnt brighter. Presently the long sticks crackled and flared, and they looked across the flames and laughed at one another.

"Have you ever cooked fish, in the open?" he asked. She shook her head, and he cleared a little place in the ashes beneath the sticks, and laid a flat stone in the centre, and placed the fish upon it. He cleaned his knife on his breeches, and then, crouching beside the fire, he waited a few minutes until the fish began to brown, when he turned it with his knife, so that the heat came to it more easily. It was darker here in the creek than it had been in the open river, and the trees threw long shadows down to the quay. There was a radiance in the deepening sky belonging only to those nights of midsummer, brief and lovely, that whisper for a moment in time and go forever. Dona watched his hands, busy with the fish, and glanced up at his face, intent upon his cooking, the brows frowning a little in concentration, and his skin reddened by the glow of the fire. The good food smell came to her nostrils and to his at the same moment, and he looked at her and smiled, saying not a word, but turned the fish once again to the crackling flame.

Then, when he had judged it brown enough, he lifted it with his knife onto a leaf, the fish all sizzling and bubbling with the heat, and slicing it down the middle he pushed one half of the fish onto the edge of the leaf, giving her the knife, and taking the other half between his fingers began to eat, laughing at her as he did so. "It is a pity," said Dona, spearing her fish with the knife, "that we have nothing to drink." In answer he rose to his feet and went down to the boat at the water's edge, coming back in a moment with a long slim bottle in his hands.

"I had forgotten," he said, "that you were used to supping at the Swan."

She did not reply at once, stung momentarily by his words, and then, as he poured the wine into the glass he had brought for her, she asked, "What do you know of my suppers at the Swan?" He licked his fingers, sticky with the fish, and poured some wine into a second glass for himself.

"The Lady St. Columb sups cheek by jowl with the ladies of the town," he said, "and later roysters about the streets and highways like a boy with his breeches down, returning home as the night-watchman seeks his bed."

She held her glass between her hands, not drinking, staring down at the dark water, and into her mind suddenly came the thought that he believed her bawdy, promiscuous, like the women in the tavern, and considered that her behaviour now, sitting beside him in the open air at night, cross-legged, like a gypsy, was but another brief interlude in a series of escapades, that she had, in a similar fashion, behaved thus with countless others, with Rockingham, with all Harry's friends and acquaintances, that she was nothing but a spoilt whore, lusting after new sensations, without even a whore's excuse of poverty. She wondered why the thought that he might believe this of her should cause her such intolerable pain, and it seemed to her that the light had gone out of the evening, and all the lovely pleasure was no more. She wished suddenly she was at Navron, at home, in her own room, with James coming in to her, staggering on fat unsteady legs, so that she could pick him up in her arms, and hold him tight, and bury her face in his smooth fat cheek and forget this new strange anguish that filled her heart, this feeling of sorrow, of lost bewilderment.

"Are you not thirsty after all?" he said, and she turned to him, her eyes tormented. "No," she said. "No, I believe not," and fell silent again, playing with the ends of her sash.

It seemed to her that the peace of their being together was broken, and a constraint had come between them. His words had hurt her, and he knew that they had hurt her, and as they stared into the fire without a word all the unspoken hidden things flamed in the air, creating a brittle atmosphere of unrest.

At last he broke the silence, his voice very low and quiet.

"In the winter," he said, "when I used to lie in your room at Navron, and look at your picture, I made my own pictures of you in my mind. I would see you fishing perhaps, as we did this afternoon, or watching the sea from the decks of La Mouette. And somehow, the pictures would not fit with the servants' gossip I had heard from time to time. The two were not in keeping."

"How unwise of you," she said slowly, "to make pictures of someone you had never seen."

"Possibly," he said, "but it was unwise of you to leave your portrait in your bedroom, untended and alone, when pirates such as myself make landings on the English coast."

"You might have turned it," she said, "with its face to the wall-or even put another in its place, of the true Dona St. Columb, roystering at the Swan, and dressing up in the breeches of her husband's friends, and riding at midnight with a mask on her face to frighten old solitary women."

"Was that one of your pastimes?"

"It was the last one, before I became a fugitive. I wonder you did not hear it, with the rest of the servants' gossip."

Suddenly he laughed, and reaching to the little pile of wood behind him, he threw fresh fuel onto the fire, and the flames crackled and leapt into the air, "It is a pity you were not born a boy," he said, "you could have discovered then what danger meant. Like myself, you are an outlaw at heart, and dressing up in breeches and frightening old women was the nearest thing to piracy you could imagine."

"Yes," she said, "but you-when you have captured your prize or made your landing-sail away with a sense of achievement, whereas I, in my pitiful little attempt at piracy, was filled with self-hatred, and a feeling of degradation."

"You are a woman," he said, "and you do not care for killing fishes either."

This time, looking across the fire, she saw that he was smiling at her in a mocking way, and it seemed as though the constraint between them vanished, they were themselves again, and she could lean back on her elbow and relax.

"When I was a lad," he said, "I used to play at soldiers, and fight for my king. And then, in a thunderstorm, when the lightning came and the thunder clapped, I would hide my head in my mother's lap and put my fingers in my ears. Also, to make my soldiering more realistic, I would paint my hands red and pretend to be wounded-but when I saw blood for the first time on a dog that was dying, I ran away and was sick."

"That was like me," she said, "that was how I felt, after my masquerade."

"Yes," he said, "that is why I told you."

"And now," she said, "you don't mind blood any more, you are a pirate, and fighting is your life-robbing and killing, and hurting. All the things you pretended to do and were afraid to do-now you don't mind them any longer."

"On the contrary," he said, "I am often very frightened."

"Yes," she said, "but not in the same way. Not frightened of yourself. Not frightened of being afraid."

"No," he said. "No, that has gone for ever. That went when I became a pirate."

The long twigs in the fire began to crumple and fall, and to break into fragments. The flames burnt low, and the ashes were white.

"To-morrow," he said, "I must begin to plan again."

She glanced across at him, but the firelight no longer shone upon him, and his face was in shadow.

"You mean-you must go away?" she said.

"I have been idle too long," he answered, "the fault lies in the creek. I have allowed it to take a hold on me. No, your friends Eustick and Godolphin shall have a run for their money. I shall see if I can bring them into the open."

"You are going to do something dangerous?"

"Of course."

"Will you make another landing along the coast?"

"Very probably."

"And risk capture, and possibly death?"

"Yes."

"Why-and for what reason?"

"Because I want the satisfaction of proving to myself that my brain is better than theirs."