So he came alive again." "That is a story which would make a man's name if he wrote it down," said Jean Jacques eloquently.

"And the poor little senora, but my heart bleeds for her! To go like that in such pain, and not to know--If she had been my wife I think I would have gone after her to tell her it was all right, and to be with her--" He paused confused, for that seemed like a reflection on her father's chivalry, and for a man who had risked his life for his banished king--what would he have thought if he had been told that Sebastian Dolores was an anarchist who loathed kings!--it was an insult to suggest that he did not know the right thing to do, or, knowing, had not done it.
She saw the weakness of his case at once.

"There was his duty to the living," she said indignantly.
"Ah, forgive me--what a fool I am!" Jean Jacques said repentantly at once.

"There was his little girl, his beloved child, his Carmen Dolores, so beautiful, with the voice like a flute, and--" He drew nearer to her, his hand was outstretched to take hers; his eyes were full of the passion of the moment; pity was drowning all caution, all the Norman shrewdness in him, when the Antoine suddenly stopped almost dead with a sudden jolt and shock, then plunged sideways, jerked, and trembled.
"We've struck a sunk iceberg--the rest of the story to-morrow, Senorita," he cried, as they both sprang to their feet.
"The rest of the story to-morrow," she repeated, angry at the stroke of fate which had so interrupted the course of her fortune.

She said it with a voice also charged with fear; for she was by nature a landfarer, not a sea-farer, though on the rivers of Spain she had lived almost as much as on land, and she was a good swimmer.
"The rest to-morrow," she repeated, controlling herself..