“My noble child, you have spoken well,” said he, in a quavering, feeble voice, “Forgive me that I come so near; my eyes are very weak now; and you—­you do not recognize me any more?”

“Anton!” said the mother.

“Child,” said he, still addressing Natalie, “it is old Anton Pepczinski who is speaking to you.  But you are disturbed; and I have greatly changed, no doubt.  No matter.  I have travelled a long way to bring you my blessing, and I give it to you now:  I shall not see you again in this world.  You were always brave and good; be that to the end; God has given you a noble soul.”

She looked up, and something in her face told him that she had recognized him, despite the changes time had made.

“Yes, yes,” he said, in great delight; “you remember now that you used to bring me tobacco for my pipe, and ask if I would fight for your country; I can see it in your eyes, my child:  you remember, then, the old Anton Pepczinski who used to bring you sweet things?  Now come and take me to the English gentleman; I wish to speak to him.  Tell me, does he love you—­does he understand you?”

She was silent, and embarrassed.

“No! you will not speak?” the old man said, laughing; “you cast your eyes down again.  See, now, how one changes! for in former days you made love openly enough—­oh yes!—­to me, to me myself—­oh, my dear, I can remember.  I can remember very well.  I am not so old that I cannot remember.”

Brand rose when he saw them coming.  She regarded him earnestly for a brief second or two, and said something to him in English in an undertone, not understood by those standing round.

CHAPTER LX.

NEW SHORES.

The moonlight lay on the moving Atlantic, and filled the hollow world with a radiance soft and gray and vague; but it struck sharp and white on the polished rails and spars of this great steamer, and shone on the long and shapely decks, and on the broad track of foam that went away back and back and back until it was lost in the horizon.  It was late; and nearly all the passengers had gone below.  In the silence there was only heard the monotonous sound of the engines, and the continuous rush and seething of the waters as the huge vessel clove its way onward.

Out there by the rail, in the white light, Natalie Lind lay back in her chair, all wrapped up in furs, and her lover was by her side, on a rug on the deck, his hand placed over her hand.

“To-morrow, then, Natalie,” he was saying, “you will get your first glimpse of America.”

“So you see I have procured your banishment after all,” she said, with a smile.

“Not you,” was the answer.  “I had thought of it often.  For a new life, a new world; and it is a new life you and I are beginning together.”

Here the bell in the steering-room struck the half-hour; it was repeated by the lookout forward.  The sound was strange, in the silence.