"No; I have no one, no one!"

"What! no relatives!" said Zac, in a voice full of commiseration and tender pity.

Margot shook her head.

"An' so you've got no father nor mother, an' you're a poor little orphan girl!" said Zac, in a broken voice.

Margot shook her head, and looked sadder than over.

Tears came to Zac's eyes. He felt as he had never felt before. There was something so inexpressibly touching about this orphan! He took her little hand tenderly in his own great, brown, toil-worn fist, and looked at her very wistfully. For a few moments he said nothing.

Margot looked up at him with her great brown eyes, and then looked meekly at the deck. Zac heaved a deep sigh; then he placed his disengaged hand solemnly upon her head.

"Wal," said he, gravely, "I'll protect you. Ef anybody ever harms you, you jest come to me. I'll--I'll be--a father to you."

Again Margot looked up at him with her great brown eyes.

"O, dat's noting," she said. "I don't want you to be my fader. But, all de same, I tink you one very nice man; an' you safe my life; an'

I sall not forget--nevare; an' I weesh--. Sall I tell you what I weesh?"

"Yes, yes," said Zac, eagerly, with a strange thrill of excitement.

Margot threw a quick look around.

"Dees Monsieur de Cazeneau," said she, drawing nearer to Zac, and speaking in a low, quick voice, "I 'fraid of heem. Dere is danjaire for my mademoiselle. He is a bad man. He haf a plot--a plan. You moos safe us. Dees Monsieur Motier is no good. You haf safe us from death; you moos safe us from dees danjaire."

"How?" asked Zac, who took in at once the meaning of Margot's words, though not fully understanding them.

"I will tell. Dess Monsieur de Cazeneau wish to get us to Louisbourg, where he will ruin us all--dat is, de ole count and de mademoiselle.

You moos turn about, and take us to Boston."

"Take you to Boston! But this schooner is engaged to go to Louisbourg with Mr. Motier."

Margot shook her head.

"You moos do it," said she, "or we sall be ruin. You moos tell Monsieur Motier--"

Zac now began questioning her further; but Margot could not remain any longer; she therefore hurried away, with the promise to see him again and explain more about it; and Zac was left alone with his own thoughts, not knowing exactly what he could say to Claude, or how he could make up, out of Margot's scanty information, a story which might offer sufficient ground for a change in the purpose of the voyage.

Meanwhile Claude had seen Mimi at various times, and had conversed with her, as before, in a very confidential manner. The danger of which Margot had spoken was present in Mimi's thoughts, also; and she was anxious to secure Claude's a.s.sistance.

Thus it was that Mimi communicated to Claude all about her personal affairs. There was something almost childish in this ready communicativeness; but she knew no reason for concealing anything, and therefore was thus frank and outspoken. Claude, also, was quite as willing to tell all about himself; though his own story was somewhat more involved, and could not be told piecemeal, but required a longer and more elaborate explanation.

"Have you many friends in France?" asked Mimi, in an abrupt sort of way, the next time they met.

"Friends in France?" repeated Claude; "not one, that I know of."

"No friends! Then what can you do there?" she asked, innocently.

"Well, I don't know yet," said he. "I will see when I get there. The fact is, I am going there to find out something about my own family--my parents and myself."

At this Mimi fastened her large eyes upon Claude with intense interest.

"How strangely you talk!" said she.

"I'll tell you a secret," said Claude, after a pause.

"What?" she asked.

"You will never tell it to any one? It's very important."

"I tell it?" repeated Mimi; "I! Never. Of course not. So, now, what is the secret?"

"Well, it's this: my name is not Motier."

"Well," said Mimi, "I'm sure I'm very glad that it isn't; and it seemed strange when you told me first, for Motier is a plebeian name; and you certainly are no plebeian."

"I am not a plebeian," said Claude, proudly. "You are right. My name is one of the n.o.blest in France. I wonder if you can tell me what I want to know!"

"I! Why, how can I?" said Mimi. "But I should so like to know what it is that you want to know! And O, monsieur, I should so love to know what is your real name and family!"

"Well," said Claude, "I don't as yet know much about it myself. But I do know what my real name is. I am the Count de Montresor."

"Montresor," exclaimed Mimi, "Montresor!"

As she said this, there was an evident agitation in her voice and manner which did not escape Claude.

"What's the matter?" said he. "You know something. Tell me what it is! O, tell me!"

Mimi looked at him very earnestly.

"I don't know," said she; "I don't know anything at all. I only know this, that poor papa's troubles are connected in some way with some one whose name is Montresor. But his troubles are a thing that I am afraid to speak about, and therefore I have never found out anything about them. So I don't know anything about Montresor, more than this.

And the trouble is something terrible, I know," continued Mimi, "for it has forced him, at his time of life, to leave his home and become an exile. And I'm afraid--that is, I imagine--that he himself has done some wrong in his early life to some Montresor. But I'm afraid to ask him; and I think now that the sole object of his journey is to atone for this wrong that he has done. And O, monsieur, now that you tell your name, now that you say how you have been living here all your life, I have a fearful suspicion that my papa has been the cause of it. Montrosor! How strange!"

Mimi was very much agitated; so much so, indeed, that Claude repented having told her this. But it was now too late to repent, and he could only try to find some way of remedying the evil.

"Suppose I go to your father," said he, "and tell him who I am, and all about myself."

"No, no," cried Mimi, earnestly; "do not! O, do not! I would not have you for worlds. My hope is, that he may give up his search and go home again, and find peace. There is nothing that you can do. What it is that troubles him I don't know; but it was something that took place before you or I were born--many, many years ago. You can do nothing. You would only trouble him the more. If he has done wrong to you or yours, you would only make his remorse the worse, for he would see in you one whom his acts have made an exile."

"O, nonsense!" said Claude, cheerily; "I haven't been anything of the kind. For my part, I've lived a very happy life indeed; and it's only of late that I found out my real name. I'll tell you all about it some time, and then you'll understand better. As to anybody feeling remorse about my life, that's all nonsense. I consider my life rather an enviable one thus far."

At this Mimi's agitation left her, and she grew calm again. She looked at Claude with a glance of deep grat.i.tude, and said,--

"O, how glad, how very glad, I am to hear you say that! Perhaps you may be able yet to tell that to my dear papa. But still, I do not wish you to say anything to him at all till I may find some time when you may do it safely. And you will promise me--will you not?--that you will keep this a secret from him till he is able to bear it."

"Promise? Of course," said Claude.

She held out her hand, and Claude took it and carried it to his lips.

They had been sitting at the bows of the schooner during this conversation. No one was near, and they had been undisturbed.