The two friends presented the serene and leisurely appearance of tourists enjoying the experience of a new country, but this was all on the surface. Inwardly both were wondering uneasily what awaited them in this, the chief Russian port on the Black Sea.

Odessa was a strange city, beautiful in its way but with a temporary look about it. The place was full of scaffolding and still too new to have acquired a distinct personality of its own. For it was less than twenty years since a decree signed by the Tsarina Catherine II had raised the village of Tatar fishermen, newly wrested from the Turk, to the status of a Russian port. The name of the village and its Turkish castle had been Khadjibey. Catherine had rechristened it Odessa, in memory of the Greek colony of Odessos which had once stood on the site.

The village's elevation was no mere imperial whim. Situated in a rocky bay between the estuaries of the two great rivers, Dnieper and Dniester, it provided an outstanding strategic position and at the same time an outlet to the Mediterranean for the vast wheat-lands of the Ukraine.

It was wheat, in fact, which seemed to hold a peaceful dominion over this naval port. As Marianne and Jolival walked up to the one respectable hotel in the town, preceded by an urchin who had graciously appointed himself their guide in the hope of a tip, they saw dozens of wagons piled high with bursting sacks converging on the warehouses to be stored ready for loading in the holds of the waiting ships, some of which, as Marianne noted with a pang, were English. But she knew that she was in enemy territory now.

It was a full three weeks since Napoleon's Grand Army had crossed the Niemen to challenge Alexander on his own ground.

Marianne's eyes searched the huge harbor, big enough to shelter three hundred ships, hoping to catch sight of the familiar outline of the Sea Witch. But most of the vessels were European and the Russian fleet contained nothing like the antiquated Ottoman ships, so there was little chance of distinguishing the brig's masts among that forest of spars.

The town, tumbling down a steep cliff to the sea in a froth of luxuriant vegetation, was like a link between two spaces of infinite blue; but midway between the busy harbor and the fashionable part at the top, the old Turkish citadel, now strengthened and restored, added a grimmer note. Marianne found her eyes drawn to it irresistibly. Was it there that Jason had been incarcerated all these months?

She had waited for so long, hope dwindling with every new day, that she could hardly believe he was so near to her now. News traveled slowly in the Black Sea, where no one saw the need for hurry and anything was possible. Had the American privateer fallen victim to one of the sudden fierce storms that could blow up in those waters? Or been taken by one of the pirate fleets of polyglot origin which still infested that inland sea? The tsar's navy was powerless against these vermin who would descend without warning out of darkness or mist, attack like a swarm of wasps and vanish again as suddenly and completely as if the wind had carried them away.

And then, at the beginning of June when the Ottoman Empire, weary of fighting, was making peace with Russia, Osman had come back from the harbor with news which, disquieting as it was, was nothing like as tragic as they had feared. The brig had been captured by the Russians and taken to Odessa, where it was now in custody. Of the crew, there was no news at all.

The probability was that they were the prisoners of the formidable governor of the Crimea, that French émigré who, in spite of his name, had apparently made himself more Russian than the Russians and was now by all accounts devoting his considerable talents to developing the wealth of southern Russia and making Odessa into a real city: in a word, the Duc de Richelieu.

With the help of Princess Morousi, who by reason of the nearness of her estate at Arnavut Koy was able to visit Marianne quietly without arousing the suspicions of the ever-watchful Mr. Canning, the recluse at Humayunabad had been able to resume at second hand her friendship with Nakshidil. At her entreaty the Valideh had instituted discreet inquiries which had confirmed the supposition. The American was indeed the prisoner of Odessa's governor, and Nakshidil was compelled to own that she could do nothing to obtain his release. To disturb the fragile balance so recently established between the Porte and the tsar's governor for the sake of one troublesome foreigner was out of the question.

Marianne had accepted it and had made her decision quickly. In any case, the news, however bad, was still better than she had feared and better also than the long uncertainty. Jason had lost his freedom once again but at least he was still alive.

Of her child, on the other hand, she had had no news at all. The prince, Donna Lavinia and the baby seemed to have vanished into thin air and when she tried to question Osman about where his master might have gone the steward had only bowed deeply and protested that he did not know at all. But his smile had been almost too guileless. That was another subject about which he must have had very strict instructions.

Marianne had confined herself, therefore, to asking him to provide her with a vessel to carry her and Jolival in the greatest possible speed and comfort to Odessa. The Duc de Richelieu had been a friend and fellow pupil of her father's at the Collège du Plessis, and because of this she had asked for and obtained a passport in her maiden name. She had some faint hope that the duke might be moved by recollections of his youth to gratify his old friend's daughter by releasing the Sea Witch and her crew. He would certainly do it more readily for her than for the intimate friend of Napoleon.

Even then, of course, they would still have to escape from the trap of the Black Sea and sail back through the Bosporus under the guns of Rumeli Hissar and under the noses of the English ships, but all these seemed to Marianne to be minor obstacles. The fact that she would be facing them with Jason at her side took away much of their power to frighten her. The main thing, and the most difficult also, was to wrest the American away from his aristocratic captor, who was certain to be the mortal foe of liberalism in any form and, if he possessed even a fraction of the force of character of his illustrious ancestor, might well prove no easy nut to crack.

Marianne could picture him: lofty, arrogant, ruling his vast province with a rod of iron, a lover of luxury and of the arts, highly intelligent almost certainly but distinctly unapproachable.

Her fear of him was growing as she traversed the harbor, overflowing with life and activity. Even in the late afternoon the heat was still tremendous, but the crowd of tradesmen, clerks, peasants, seamen, porters and soldiers grew denser and busier the nearer they got to the long street which ran uphill to the administrative center of the town. There on the top of the cliff, above a handful of elegant pink and white houses built in the style of the preceding century, shone the gilded onion domes and rococo belfry of the brand-new churches.

Buildings were going up on all sides and the sites were all alive with men at work. The biggest seemed to be the arsenal, which was nearing completion. Masons on long ladders were busy carving the Russian imperial eagle above the monumental gateway, and their youthful guide began by leading the two travelers straight up to this, explaining engagingly by means of a great many gestures that before penetrating further into the city they must not neglect the opportunity to admire what was undoubtedly going to be one of the finest monuments anywhere to the glory of Alexander I, Tsar of all the Russias.

"Very well," Jolival sighed. "Let's go and admire it. It won't take long and we don't want to offend anyone."

Standing on a block of stone a few yards away from the scaffolding was a man apparently engaged in supervising the sculptors at their work. He was evidently a person of some importance because he turned from time to time and said a few words to a tall, dark young man carrying a writing block who at once made haste to copy it down.

The man's appearance was sufficiently remarkable. He was tall and thin and his rather aquiline features wore a slightly haunted expression. His hair, uncovered to the evening breeze, was short and wavy, still black in places but completely white in others. He was dressed any which way in a frock coat that had seen better days, well-worn boots and a black neckcloth knotted loosely around his throat. He was puffing away at a long meerschaum pipe which produced as much smoke as a small but lively volcano.

He was turning to toss another word or two to the tall young man between puffs when Marianne, Jolival and their little procession entered his field of vision. A flicker of interest came into his eyes at the sight of a pretty woman, but before he could do more than register her presence his attention was deflected by a frightful clamor of noise and shouting which broke out around him.

In another moment he had leaped down from his block of stone and rushed at them headlong with outstretched arms, mowing the two of them down and collapsing on top of them on a pile of grain sacks awaiting loading.

Before either Marianne or Jolival had time to do so much as gasp, a cartload of stone had thundered past bare inches from their heap of sacks and rumbled madly on to plunge into the harbor with a mighty splash. But for the stranger's prompt and courageous action, the two friends' journey would have ended there and then.

Blenching at the thought of what she had escaped, Marianne accepted her rescuer's hand to help her to her feet. Jolival was brushing dust from his elegant raiment, now irremediably crushed. Automatically straightening her bonnet, which had tipped over one ear, Marianne turned toward the stranger, now rather summarily slapping the dust off himself, a look swimming with gratitude.