Her name was the Tremolino.  How is this to be translated?  The Quiverer?  What a name to give the pluckiest little craft that ever dipped her sides in angry foam!  I had felt her, it is true, trembling for nights and days together under my feet, but it was with the high-strung tenseness of her faithful courage.  In her short, but brilliant, career she has taught me nothing, but she has given me everything.  I owe to her the awakened love for the sea that, with the quivering of her swift little body and the humming of the wind under the foot of her lateen sails, stole into my heart with a sort of gentle violence, and brought my imagination under its despotic sway.  The Tremolino!  To this day I cannot utter or even write that name without a strange tightening of the breast and the gasp of mingled delight and dread of one’s first passionate experience.

XLI.

We four formed (to use a term well understood nowadays in every social sphere) a “syndicate” owning the Tremolino:  an international and astonishing syndicate.  And we were all ardent Royalists of the snow-white Legitimist complexion—­Heaven only knows why!  In all associations of men there is generally one who, by the authority of age and of a more experienced wisdom, imparts a collective character to the whole set.  If I mention that the oldest of us was very old, extremely old—­nearly thirty years old—­ and that he used to declare with gallant carelessness, “I live by my sword,” I think I have given enough information on the score of our collective wisdom.  He was a North Carolinian gentleman, J. M. K. B. were the initials of his name, and he really did live by the sword, as far as I know.  He died by it, too, later on, in a Balkanian squabble, in the cause of some Serbs or else Bulgarians, who were neither Catholics nor gentlemen—­at least, not in the exalted but narrow sense he attached to that last word.

Poor J. M. K. B., Americain, Catholique, et gentilhomme, as he was disposed to describe himself in moments of lofty expansion!  Are there still to be found in Europe gentlemen keen of face and elegantly slight of body, of distinguished aspect, with a fascinating drawing-room manner and with a dark, fatal glance, who live by their swords, I wonder?  His family had been ruined in the Civil War, I fancy, and seems for a decade or so to have led a wandering life in the Old World.  As to Henry C-, the next in age and wisdom of our band, he had broken loose from the unyielding rigidity of his family, solidly rooted, if I remember rightly, in a well-to-do London suburb.  On their respectable authority he introduced himself meekly to strangers as a “black sheep.”  I have never seen a more guileless specimen of an outcast.  Never.