It is probable that, now the first excitement of setting out was over, and the two women-folk left to themselves in the solitude of a compartment, Natalie might have begun to reflect with some tremor of the heart on the very vagueness of the task she had undertaken.  But she was not permitted to do so.  The necessity of driving away her mother’s forebodings prevented her indulging in any of her own.  She was forced to be careless, cheerful, matter-of-fact.

“Natalushka,” the mother said, holding her daughter’s hand, “you have been brought up in ignorance.  You know only the romantic, the beautiful side of what is going on; you do not know what these men are ready to do—­what has been done—­to secure the success of their schemes.  And for you, a girl, to interfere, it is madness, Natalushka.  They will laugh at you, perhaps; perhaps it may be worse; they may resent your interference, and ask who has betrayed their secrets.”

“Are they so very terrible, then?” said the girl, with a smile, “when Lord Evelyn—­ah, you do not know him yet, mother; but he is as gentle as a woman—­when he is their friend; and when Mr. Brand is full of admiration for what they are doing; and when Calabressa—­Now, mother, is Calabressa likely to harm any one?  And it was Calabressa himself who said to me, ’Little daughter, if ever you are in great trouble, go to Naples.  You will find friends there.’  No, mother, it is no use your trying to frighten me.  No; let us talk about something sensible; for example, which way is the wind?”

“How can I tell, Natalushka?”

The girl laughed—­rather a forced laugh, perhaps; she could not altogether shake off the consciousness of the peril that surrounded her lover.

“Why, mother, you are a pretty courier!  You are about to cross the Channel, and you do not know which way the wind is, or whether the sea is rough, or anything.  Now I will tell you; it is I who am the courier.  The wind is northeast; the sea was quite smooth yesterday evening; I think we shall have a comfortable passage.  And do you know why I have brought you away by this train?  Don’t you know that I shall get you down to Dover in time to give you something nice for dinner; then, if the sea is quite smooth, we go on board before the people come; then we cross over to Calais and go to a hotel there; then you get a good, long, sound sleep, you little mother, and the next day—­that is to-morrow—­about noon, I think, we go easily on to Paris.  What do you think of that, now?”

“Whatever you do will be right, Natalushka; you know I have never before had a daughter to look after me.”

Natalie’s programme was fulfilled to the letter, and with good fortune.  They dined in the hotel, had some tea, and then went down through the dark clear night to the packet.  The sea was like a mill-pond; there was just sufficient motion of the water to make the reflections of the stars quiver in the dark.  The two women sat together on deck; and as the steamer gradually took them away from the lights of the English coast, Natalie sung to her mother, in a low voice, some verses of an old Magyar song, which were scarcely audible amidst the rush of water and the throbbing of the paddles.