"
And so it came to pass that on the following Sunday Arithelli found
herself sitting on the deck of a yacht anchored far out in the harbour,
with the shores of Barcelona only a faint outline in the distance.
They had come aboard the previous day.
Emile had made her no explanations beyond saying that he was going to
take her for a sea trip, and after her custom she had asked no
questions.
The yacht, which was an uncanny looking craft, painted black and called
"_The Witch_," she knew by reputation, and had often seen it slipping
into the harbour after dusk. It was the property of two Russian
aristocrats, friends of Emile's, who helped the Cause by conveying
bombs and infernal machines, and taking off such members of the band as
had suddenly found Spain an undesirable residence.
Arithelli was not in the least interested in either of the men, the
dark, handsome, saturnine Vladimir, or the fair-haired, pretty,
effeminate youth to whom he was comrade and hero.
But she liked their smartness and well-groomed air, and their spotless
clothes, after Emile and his dirty nails and slovenly habits, and she
appreciated to the full the surrounding refinement and comfort, and
enjoyed the daintily served meals, the shining glass and silver and the
deft, silent waiting of the sailors.
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