Toward midnight, the girl lying wakeful in the after cabin heard a tap
at the door.
"Betty, are you awake?"
"Yes."
"Don't be frightened, but I think there may be a little excitement out
here pretty soon."
"What is it?"
"Some of the 'swampers' up to a bit of thieving, I fancy."
"I'll be out in a moment, Bob White."
She found him, clad only in shirt and trousers, leaning against the side
of the cabin, and staring shoreward. She divined his frank smile, and
smiled in return.
"Thieves?" she asked in a whisper.
"I'm almost sure of it," he answered in the same tone. "I heard a boat
bump against the side of the _Wisp_ a few minutes ago. I think they were
drifting down with the tide to reconnoitre, and were swept in closer
than they had expected to be."
"Have you a pistol?"
"On the locker there. Lucky Danton lent me one of his. You aren't
afraid?"
"Not--with you."
"I dare say they won't come back. Listen now! See if you can make out
anything to starboard. I'll watch on this side."
The night was very dark. The stars were obscured by light clouds, nor
was there a moon visible. Their eyes could penetrate the darkness little
farther than the rails where a whitish mist hid the surface of the
water.
Betty gazed intently. A sidelong glance showed her Fessenden kneeling on
the locker opposite her, his half-bared arms folded on his chest. His
powerful form gave her a comforting sense of protection. She stared
again to starboard.
From the mist two great hands gripped the rail of the sloop! Then a
face--the face of a negro--rose into view, a knife gripped in his teeth.
So impossible, so barbaric, did the apparition seem, that for a long
breath Betty stared spell-bound.
Then her scream whirled Fessenden about. He crossed the cockpit at a
bound, and struck savagely at the negro's jaw. The latter ducked with
the skill of a trained boxer. Throwing up a hand, he caught the other by
the throat, dragging him forward.
Fessenden struck again, grappled with his antagonist, tottered, and
plunged headforemost over the rail upon him. Both went down struggling
wildly.
Betty snatched up the revolver, hardly knowing what she did, and stared
down upon the boiling water.
Fessenden's ghastly face, his groping fingers, his throat from which
stood up the handle of the recking knife! The possibility of these
things strained her mind to the breaking point. A horror of what the
loss of him would mean to her drew a piercing cry:
"Bob White! Oh, Bob White!"
As if summoned by the sound, the two men rose into view--a yard apart.
Betty fired on the instant. The shot went wild, but the negro, for the
first time aware that firearms were at hand, dived deep. They saw him
but once again, his head a black spot in the mist as he swam frenziedly
for his drifting punt.
Her shaking hands helped Fessenden over the rail.
"You--that dreadful knife!--you aren't hurt?"
"I knocked that out of his mouth the first thing. A couple of teeth
along with it! But the fellow can swim like an alligator--he would have
drowned me at his leisure, if you hadn't fired. Thank you, child." He
patted her shoulder. "The row must have been rather rough on you."
"It doesn't matter--so long as you're safe."
"It's all right. Well, that 'swamper' won't bother us any more to-night,
I'll swear--so I'll get out of these wet togs. Lucky they're the
flannels I borrowed from Danton."
She reached both hands to his dripping shoulders. "Tom! Tom! I want to
talk to you." She was laughing, yet half in tears. "Oh, it's
ridiculous--it's pitiful to think we are husband and wife, and--and you
don't even know my real name."
He stared down at her. A slow tremor shook him. "Then you admit--that I
don't?"
"I know you don't, you--you silly boy! Go and change your clothes. Then
come back and talk to me. Come soon!"
In a wonderfully short time he rejoined her. Only his damp hair showed
his late struggle with the robber, but his very quietness betrayed his
emotion.
She was awaiting him on the cushioned locker, a lighted reading-lamp
beside her.
"Sit down here," she said. "Close! You needn't be afraid of me. I--oh,
I've a hundred things to say to you!"
"Good. It was thoughtful of you to bring out that lamp. I can see your
face better while you talk."
"And I yours--you dear boy."
"Betty! Be careful what you say. I've got myself pretty well in hand,
but I can't stand much of that sort of thing."
She laughed deliriously. "I brought the lamp to let you read something."
She produced an official-looking document. "Look at this. Do you know
what it is?"
He peered at it. "No-o. Yes, of course. It's our marriage certificate,
isn't it?"
"It is. Mr. Thomas Fessenden, do you realize that you signed that
document some twelve hours ago and didn't even read the name just above
your own?"
"Above mine? That must be _your_ name, Betty!"
"Of course, silly boy. But you haven't yet seen it. You were so excited
that you may have married an Abiatha Prudence or a Mary Ann, for all you
know."
He gave her a penetrating glance, then snatched up the lamp and held it
so that its rays fell full upon the certificate.
Just above his own signature was another in a feminine hand: "Roland
Elizabeth Cary."