Below in the cold cabin Theodosia had been dreaming of Richmond Hill. There was happiness in this, for soon she would be in Richmond Hill again. It would be June, of course, after the ship had made port, and the roses in bloom as they always were. Yellow roses. Aaron would put them in her room while she slept, so that she might wake in her white bed and be delighted with the fragrance. Roses yellow as gold—as Mexican gold. That was why his crown was golden like the roses.

It will be my birthday, she thought, and I will wear the necklace. I shall look pretty, and Father will tell me so. Perhaps he will be so pleased with me that he will let me dance with Meme.

She smiled a little, and though her body under the heavy bedcovers braced itself to the violent pitching of the boat beneath her, she knew nothing of that.

Merne is so tall, but he will dance with that same quiet grace with which he walks. We will dance the valse together. And then the musicians will play our song, 'Water, parted from the sea...'

Soon I shall see my river again—the Hudson. All my life has been mingled with rivers. The Potomac—warmth and sunlight, the rich ecstasy of romantic love, laughter, and kisses. The Ohio—a blare of trumpets, ambition, and action. I was a queen there on the Ohio—'Your Highness'. The Waccamaw—ah, that is as ugly as its name, fetid and sinister. I hate it, but I don't have to think of it now. I'm going back to my own river. From the windows of my white bedroom I shall see it when I wake in the morning before Father calls me downstairs to study. I must remember to tell him how well Gampy is doing with his lessons. He knows as much Latin as I do. Father will be delighted with Gampy. He is growing tall. Maybe some day he will be as tall as Merne.

A tremendous wave seized the Patriot and the little ship moaned and twisted like a woman in labor. For a moment Theodosia opened her eyes to see the blackness of roaring water against the portholes. A single tiny oil lamp swung free from a plank overhead. It lurched back and forth in grotesque rhythm with the rolling of the ship.

Above the straining, creaking confusion, she heard a terrified sound. It was Eleanore, kneeling on the tilted planks, a crucifix in her hand, her eyes fixed upon her mistress.

'Madame, j'ai peur,' she whimpered. Her lips moved incessantly. 'Sainte Vierge, aidez-nous...'