At times he would go out with some of the fishermen, who readily welcomed the English stranger, and talked to him in a formal, grave way, and in French that he found it hard to follow.

Meanwhile Brettison had hunted out a brawny pleasant-faced fisherman's wife, who had been pointed out to him as an able nurse, and placed their charge in her care—the ex-convict obeying her lightest sign and giving little trouble, suffering himself to be led to some nook or other at the foot of the high cliffs, where he would sit down, watched by his attendant—the Breton woman—while Brettison busied himself on the cliffs collecting.

There was no trouble; the man grew more apathetic day by day, and Brettison took care that his companion should not come in contact with him, for fear of reviving some memory of the past and causing a scene.

"And he is so good and patient, m'sieu," the nurse would say, looking up from the knitting over which she was busy; "and he is growing well and strong, oh, so fast. It is our beautiful bay, monsieur. Yes, everyone grows strong and well here."

She nodded as if there was no contradicting this, and Brettison went in search of Stratton with a bunch of plants in his hand, and a curiously puzzled look in his eyes.

"Suppose he does get well and strong," he thought to himself. "I ought to be glad, but am not."

He found Stratton sitting back, with his shoulders against the cliff, dreaming of the past, and then of the future, more at rest than he had been for months, and as Brettison drew near he brightened a little, and smiled. For the nurse's words applied to his friend as well, and he was certainly growing stronger and better. A healthy brown was coming into his face, and in spite of the dreamy reverie into which he plunged, a more even balance was coming to his mind.

"One must reckon one against the other," Brettison said to himself.

As the days glided by, and they gained confidence from their charge's dull, dreamy condition, Brettison proposed, and Stratton readily agreed, to make little excursions with him inland, or along the coast to some of the quaint villages, or antique—so-called Druidical—remains; and after each trip they returned to find nurse and patient just as they had left them. The confidence increased, and it became evident that Stratton had only to keep away for their charge to go on in his old vacant manner from day to day. His habits were simple and full of self-indulgence, if there could be any enjoyment to a mind so blank. He rose late, and went to bed soon after sundown, and the evenings were looked forward to by Stratton and Brettison for their quiet dinner at the little inn where Stratton stayed.

Here, as they sat over their wine and had cigars, watching the evening skies and the glorious star-gemmed sea, a feeling of restfulness came over them, and they leaned back with the feeling of convalescents whose wounds were healing fast after they had been very nearly to the gates of death.

It was a marvel to Stratton as he recalled the past, and, as he sat gazing from the open window or strolled out upon the dusky sands, he wondered that he could feel so well. In fact a sensation of annoyance attacked him, for he felt guilty and faithless, a traitor to the past, and strove to resume his old cloak of sadness, but it would not come.

"Malcolm, my lad," said Brettison one evening as he leaned forward and laid his hand upon the young man's arm, "we are going to have rest and peace again. Thank Heaven, you are growing like your old self."

"Rest and peace with that man yonder," said Stratton bitterly.

"Hah! That will not do. Now you've gone back to the old style. Let that be, and wait for the future to unroll itself. The man does not trouble us, and seems hardly likely to, and we have the satisfaction of knowing that we are working for someone else's peace of mind. You must not destroy what it is that has given you the rest you enjoy."

Stratton was silent for a few moments, and sat gazing out to sea, where the lanterns of the passing boat and yacht slowly rose and fell on the gently heaving sea.

"And who could help feeling restful in such a place as this? Even I, old and worn-out as I am, enjoy the calm, languorous, peaceful sensation which steals over me. Very disloyal, my dear boy—un-English to a degree—but there is something in these places that one cannot get at home."

"Yes, I own to it," said Stratton after a pause; "one feels safe ashore after the perils of a mental wreck; but there are moments, old fellow, when I shrink and shiver, for it is as if a wave were noiselessly approaching to curl over and sweep one back into the dark waters."

"Stuff! that's all past," said Brettison, lighting a fresh cigar. "Here we are in a lovely place, and with only one care—which we depute to a nurse. Let's eat and drink our fill of the peace that has come to us."

"But it cannot go on, Brettison," said Stratton solemnly. "It must have an end."

"Yes; an end comes to all things, boy. I shall die before long, but why should I sit and brood upon that? Let's thankfully accept the good with the ill—no, not the ill," he said solemnly: "death is not an evil. It is only made so by man."

"But we cannot go on staying here," said Stratton with energy.

"Why not?"

"Oh, there are a dozen reasons. My work, for one."

"Nonsense! Sink your pride and grow strong and well. I have plenty for both of us, my boy."

"And do you think I shall settle down to such a life as that, Brettison? No; you know me better."

The old man was silent for a few minutes.

"Yes," he said at last; "I expected you to speak like that, but it is only absurd pride."

"I have not much left me in life," said Stratton quietly as he rose from the seat he had occupied. "Let me enjoy that."

Brettison made no reply. He was pained and yet pleased as he sat back and saw through the smoke of his cigar the dim figure of his companion pass and go down toward the sea, gradually growing more indistinct, till the darkness swallowed him.



CHAPTER FIFTY.

A NIGHT ALARM.

There was a feeling in the air along that dark shore which accorded well with Stratton's sensations. The solemn melancholy of the place was calming; and as he watched the sheet of spangled gold before him softly heaving and appearing to send the star reflections sweeping at last in a golden cream upon the sands, life seemed, after all, worth living, and his cares and sufferings petty and contemptible.

He wandered on close by the sea, where it broke gently in phosphorescent spray, till he was abreast of the cottage under the cliff where Brettison lodged with their charge. There was a feeble light burning, and it shed out its glow through the open door, while lamps glimmered from higher up the cliff, where three or four miniature chateaux, the property of Parisians—let to visitors to the lovely little fishing village—were snugly ensconced in the sheltering rocks.

There were voices just above the cottage, and a woman's speaking volubly, and he fancied he recognised that of the nurse, but felt that she would hardly have left her patient, though there was no reason why she should not, for Barron would have been in bed an hour or two, and it was absurd to expect her to be always on the watch.

Stratton felt a strong desire, almost irresistible, as he gazed at the light from the cottage door, to go up, enter, and gaze at the man who had come between him and happiness. He took a few steps forward under the influence upon rum, but only to stop and think, as the voluble voice above still went on in its peculiar French.

"It would not be safe," he thought, with a shudder. His presence had influenced the man imperceptibly when waking, might it not also as he slept?

Stratton drew back, and continued his walk along the shore, enjoying the coolness of the fiery looking water which washed over and about his feet, full, as it were, of phosphorescent creatures, while here and there to his right, where the sea lay calm amid the rocks, the water was covered with what resembled a golden, luminous oil, which flashed softly at times with a bluish tint.

"Brettison is right," he said to himself. "Life is grand, and it is our petty cares which spoil it. Not petty, though, mine," he added, with a sigh. "Ah! what it might be if I could but hope."

He drew a long, deep breath, and then made an effort to forget the past in the glory of the present. He bared his head to the soft, warm night air, and walked slowly on, gazing up into the depths of the vast arch above his head, where stars innumerable shone on and on till they resembled golden dust. The grandeur of the scene impressed him, and, feeling his own littleness more and more, he resolved to cast his old despondency aside and make a fresh start from that moment, accepting all his worries as the share apportioned to him, and cease to nurse them to the exclusion of the good.

He could not help a bitter smile crossing his lips the next minute as he stopped short; for there, dimly seen before him, were two figures gazing out to sea, and so occupied by their own thoughts that they had not noticed his approach. They were talking in a low voice of the sea and the phosphorescence—nothing more; but the tone of their voices!

The old, old story breathed in every modulation, and Stratton sighed and drew silently away among the rocks farther from the sea, unnoticed by the pair, who turned and began to retrace their steps toward the lights he had left behind.

They were silent now; but just as they passed him—their figures looking like one shadow between him and the luminous sea—the man said softly:

"I often feel as if it were a sin to be so happy when I think of them."

"Yes."

They passed on, while Stratton felt as if he had suddenly received a tremendous blow, and he staggered back a step or two with his hands to his brow.

Guest and Edie there! Had he gone mad?

He remained for a few seconds, as if paralysed, before he could collect himself and follow the figures, which had now passed on and been swallowed up in the darkness. A cold perspiration broke out upon his face, and he walked on to overtake them—hurriedly now; but by degrees, as he drew near enough to make out their silent, shadowy figures, seeming to glide over the soft sand, he grew a little more calm.

For he felt that the fact of his dwelling so much upon the Jerrold family had made him ready to jump at the conclusion that this was Edie and her lover. He could not distinguish face or figure in the gloom, and he had only had the man's voice to suggest the idea—the woman's was but a whisper. They were English, of course; but what of that? It was a foolish mistake; for it was utterly impossible that Guest and Edie could be alone there that night upon those sands.

All the same, he followed to see where they went, shrinking from going closer, now that he felt less sure, in dread lest he should seem to be acting the part of spy upon two strangers; while if it were they it would be madness to speak. There was only one thing to be done: warn Brettison, and get their charge away at once.

There before him walked the pair so slowly and leisurely that he had to be careful not to overtake them. They were nearing the cottage with the open door, but the loud voice he had heard in passing was silent now, and the stillness was oppressive—the beating of his own heart and the soft whispering "whish" of the feet on the loose sand being all that was audible to his ears.

It now occurred to him that, by a little management, he would be able to convince himself that this was only a mad fancy; for the couple must pass the open door, and if he struck off a little to his left, so as to get nearer to the sea, he could hurry on unseen, and get opposite to the door, so that when they passed the light he would have them like silhouettes for a moment or two, quite long enough to make out their profiles.

He set about carrying his plan into effect, and in a minute or so was abreast of the pair, but they were quite invisible now; and, feeling that he had gone too far, as soon as he was opposite to the lighted door he began to advance slowly, expecting moment by moment to see the two figures move into the light; but they did not come.

They must pass the door, he felt, for he could recall no way up the cliff, the house perched up there being approached by a broad step-like path from the rough roadway leading up the ravine which came down to the shore with its stream, beside which, on either side, many of the cottages were built.

Still they did not come, but Stratton waited patiently, for, lover-like, they might be hanging back for a few moments before approaching the light.

At last a dark figure in front of the doorway was plainly enough seen, and Stratton leaned forward with eyes dilated, but only to utter a muttered interjection, for the figure he saw was undoubtedly Brettison, as he stood there apparently peering about in the darkness.

Another moment or two, and still no sign of the figures he sought, and, wondering whether they could have passed through some miscalculation on his part, he stepped forward quickly to make sure, when he became visible to Brettison, who joined him at once.

"There you are, then. I was getting uneasy. One of the fishermen saw you go along in this direction, and I was beginning to think that I must get some of them to come and help me search for you."

"Why?" said Stratton harshly.

"Because the coast is dangerous, and there is always the risk of anyone being surrounded by the advancing tide."

"Tide is going down," said Stratton quietly. "See anybody pass?" he continued as he debated whether he should take Brettison into his confidence, while all the time he kept a sharp look about him.

"No, not a soul. The most solitary place a man could select for a stay."

"Is there a way up into the village beyond the cottage here?" said Stratton quietly.

"Yes, but it is only a sort of flight of steps used by the people here. It would be farther round, too. Better keep to the beach."

As he spoke Brettison walked by his side, and tried to edge him away from the light, speaking in quite a whisper the while, as if afraid that their voices might reach the occupant of the cottage.

And meanwhile Stratton was still debating within himself as to whether he should tell his companion of the startling adventure he had had. But feeling more and more that the idea was only coloured by his imagination, and knowing in his heart that the old man would smile and point out the impossibility of such an encounter, he determined to be silent till the morning—if he could not learn anything about any visitors who might be staying there.

Twice over as they walked he was on the point of speaking, but checked himself, and then the opportunity was gone, for Brettison held out his hand.

"Good-night, my boy," he said; "you are tired. There, go to the inn and have a good night's rest."

"One moment, Brettison," said Stratton, arresting him. "You do not think it possible that—"

He stopped short: he could not say it. The idea was absurd.

"Well, think what possible?" said Brettison, smiling.

"That he is likely to turn dangerous?"

"I have no fear of him whatever," said the old man. "There, don't fidget; good-night."

Stratton went on to the inn, wishing that he had spoken to Brettison, after all; and he had hardly taken his seat before he sprang up again to go back to him. Before starting he summoned the landlady to question her about visitors to the place, but only to find in a few minutes that her knowledge was confined to those who came to her hotel. There were people who let their houses and took in lodgers, she knew—yes, but she had no patience with people who played at keeping an hotel.

Stratton went out once more into the night with the intention of going straight to Brettison, telling him his suspicions, and asking his advice; but he shrank from the task; and on the impulse of the moment turned off to go and explore the village on the chance of happening upon something which would give him a clue.

Five minutes devoted to his task was sufficient to satisfy him of the hopelessness of the task, and he returned to the inn agitated, weary, and trying to make some plan as to his proceedings as soon as it was light.

"The post!" he said to himself. He would be able to learn there; and half disposed to hire some vehicle and go across ten miles to the town, he entered the doorway, to start once more, this time with a thrill of certainty.

For, as he advanced, he saw at the end of the passage a man in conversation with the landlady. He was making inquiries about a boat for a sail next day. The next minute he turned to leave, and came face to face with Guest.

"Great Heavens!" cried the latter hoarsely; "you or your ghost. O Mal, old man, if it is you how could you be so mad?"

"Mad? Mad?" stammered Stratton. "What do you mean?"

"Why, as to follow me?"

"I—I did not know you were here."

"Oh, hang that, man. I told you in my letter."

"What letter?"

"The one I wrote and pushed into your letter-box after coming twice to tell you."

"Letter?"

"Why, of course. You had it or you couldn't have come here."

Stratton's hand went to his breast, and the next minute he drew out a soiled letter doubled up into three from the pressure of his pocketbook.

"You wrote this letter to me to tell me you were coming here?" said Stratton in slow, strange accents.

"Of course I did, and I tell you that you have done a mean, cruel thing in following me. It can do no good; Sir Mark will be furious, and it is cruel to Myra."

"Myra—Myra here!" gasped Stratton as he reeled against the wall.

"Don't make a scene, man," said Guest in a low whisper. "Of course; I told you she was coming, and how the old man insisted upon my coming too. Why, you haven't opened the letter!"

"No," said Stratton in a hoarse whisper.

"Then how came you here?"

"I—Heaven only knows!" said Stratton. "It is beyond me."

Guest looked at him curiously, as if he doubted his word.

"We only came to-day. Had to stop at place after place; Myra is so weak and ill."

Stratton groaned.

"Yes," said Guest; "that's better. Now look here. You and I will start off at daybreak for home. It's hard on me, but it must be done."

"Yes. I saw you two—on the sands to-night. I was not sure. But tell me, where are they staying?"

"At a little chateau-like place on the cliff; they got it through a woman they knew at Saint Malo a couple or three years ago. She was servant there. She is nurse now to an invalid gentleman staying at a cottage just below."

Stratton stood gazing at his friend as if he had been turned to stone.



CHAPTER FIFTY ONE.

AND ALL IN VAIN.

Guest stood looking at his friend for a few moments, half astonished, half annoyed.

"Look here," he said at last, taking his arm and drawing it through his own, "we can't talk freely in this place. Come out and have a cigar on the sands."

Stratton made no reply, but walked out with him like a man who had been stunned, Guest taking the direction opposite to that in which the admiral's temporary home lay. Then, stopping short by the ebbing sea, he drew out his cigar case and offered it; but it was waved aside.

"Quite right," said Guest shortly; "we can't smoke now. Look here, old fellow, I shouldn't be your friend if I did not speak out when you were in the wrong. You must have known we were coming here, and you must see now that you have done, as I said, a cruel thing in coming; so give me your word as a man of honour that you will be ready to start with me in the morning first thing."

"I tell you I did not know they were coming here," said Stratton in a deep, solemn tone; "I tell you I did not follow you, and I tell you that I cannot leave here with you in the morning."

"Then how in the world did you come here?"

"I don't know. I suppose it was fate."

"Bosh! Who believes in fate? Don't talk nonsense, man. I am horribly sorry for you, as sorry as I can be for a man who is my friend, but who has never trusted or confided in me; but I stand now toward the admiral and Myra in such a position that I cannot keep aloof and see them insulted—well, I will not say that—see their feelings hurt by the reckless conduct of a man who is in the wrong."

"In the wrong?" said Stratton involuntarily.

"Yes, in the wrong. You have wronged Myra."

Stratton sighed.

"And made her the wreck she is. I don't say you could have made things better by speaking out—that is your secret—but I do say you could make matters better by keeping away."

"Yes, I must go away as soon as possible."

"You will, then?" cried Guest eagerly. "In the morning?"

"No; yes, if I can get away."

"That's quibbling, man; an excuse to get near and see her," cried Guest angrily.

"I swear it is not," cried Stratton. "You will not believe me even after seeing your letter—which I had forgotten—was unopened."

"I can't, Mal. I wish to goodness I could."

"Never mind. I can say no more."

"You mean that you will say no more," said Guest shortly.

"I mean what I said," replied Stratton.

"Very well. You must take your road; I must take mine."

Stratton was silent, and Guest turned short round on his heel, took a couple of steps away, but turned back.

"Mal, old chap, you make me wild," he cried, holding out his hand. "I know it's hard to bear—I know how you loved her, but sacrifice self for your honour's sake; be a man, and come away. There, I'll walk with you to the post town. You'll come?"

"I cannot yet."

"Why?"

"It is better that I should not tell you," replied Stratton firmly. "Will you trust me?"

"Will you confide in me, and tell me all your reasons for this strange conduct?"

"Some day; not now."

"You will not trust me, and you ask me to trust you. It can't be done, man; you ask too much. Once more, are we to be friends?"

"Yes."

"Then you will go?"

"Yes."

"At once?"

"No."

"Bah!" ejaculated Guest angrily, and he turned and strode away, while Stratton uttered a low sigh of misery, and yet of relief, for his friend's presence was irksome to him now that he wanted to act.

He waited until Guest had been gone for some minutes, and then, taking a short cut, he strode along the sands, half in dread of encountering him again, but feeling that he must risk it, though certain that if they did meet Guest would reproach him with going toward the admiral's residence in order to obtain an interview with Myra.

"He must think it—he must think it," muttered Stratton as he hurried on, now stumbling over a piece of rock, now slipping on some heap of weed left by the tide. But he pressed forward, making straight for a light which shone out plainly half-way up the cliff, and which he instinctively judged to be at Sir Mark's abode, and a sense of despair clutched his heart as he felt how he was to be so near and yet dared not even look, much less speak.

Suddenly he found that, though he was making straight for the cliff, he was wading through water; but he kept on, believing that he had entered a pool left by the tide, till the water rose from his ankles to his knees, and a rushing sound warned him that the tide had turned and was coming in fast. Then he knew that he must have been walking along one of the spits of sand round which the flowing tide curved, and that if he retraced his steps it might be to find the other end covered, besides losing time.

The darkness confused him, and he stopped, hesitating for a few moments; then, feeling that, whether the water deepened or receded, he must press on, he drew a deep breath and moved forward, the tide soon rising to his waist, and a wave nearly taking him off his legs.

Was it to be his fate to be drowned now at such a critical time, he asked himself, there in sight of the light that might be shining from the room which the woman he sought to save from suffering now occupied?

As this thought ran through his mind the waves rushed back with a hiss, the water falling to his knees, and, making a dash forward he found that he had passed the deepest part of the channel scooped by the tide in the sand. Five minutes later he was on dry land, with the water streaming from him, and soon after the light which had been his guide disappeared.

He rightly judged, though, that it must be from his having approached nearer to the cliff; and, pressing on in spite of the darkness, he at last reached it, but was unable to judge whether he was to right or left of the cottage that he sought.

Once more he felt in despair, for he knew that time was gliding rapidly by, and that by some means they ought to leave before day.

He was about to try off to the right when all at once he heard voices above his head to the left, and, listening intently, he made out the deep tones of the admiral, and an answer came in Guest's familiar voice.

"Is he telling him that I am here?" thought Stratton. No, for there was a pleasant little laugh—Edie's; and the constriction at the listener's heart was painful as he stood there thinking and wishing to hear the voice of the woman he loved better than his life.

But the next who spoke was the admiral, and his words came distinctly to where, with every nerve strained, Stratton stood rooted to the sands.

"Well, I'm sorry," said Sir Mark, "but we've plenty of time. We'll have a sail another day, and a wander about the sands to-morrow. I'll charter a boat at Saint Malo, and make her come round. Now, my dears, in with you; it's getting late."

"My dears!" Then Myra was there all the time above where he stood; and in the silence and darkness which surrounded him Stratton sank upon his knees, and buried his face in his hands as he offered up a prayer for the safety of his lost love.

He sprang to his feet. The cottage must be close at hand, and in a few moments he was opposite the door of the long, low habitation on its little shelf of the cliff.

All was darker than ever, for the flowing tide had brought with it a chilling mist, but there was no difficulty in finding Brettison's window, Barron's being next, at the end of the little house, the nurse and the owner and his wife occupying rooms on the other side of the door.

Everyone had retired; and Stratton hesitated, feeling that he must defer his communication till the morning.

No; impossible. The wife not a hundred feet above where he stood—the convict husband close at hand, where he in his blindness had brought him. At all hazards such a critical position must be ended, and he tapped gently at Brettison's casement.

There was not a sound in answer, and he tapped again and again more loudly. Then, with a rising sensation of anger that a man could sleep calmly in the midst of such peril, he was about to tap again when he was conscious of a faint sound within, and directly after a voice said softly:

"Who is there?"

"I—Stratton."

The fastening grated, and the window was thrown open.

"What is it?" whispered Brettison; "are you ill?"

"Yes; sick at heart. We must be off at once."

"Hist! speak lower! there is only the closed door between my room and his," whispered Brettison, "and he is restless to-night. I've heard him move and mutter. In Heaven's name, what is it—the police on the scent?"

"Would that they were waiting to take him off this moment, man," whispered Stratton. "Myra and her father are here."

"You're mad."

"Yes. But they are in the house above."

"They—the newcomers just arrived?"

"Yes. I thought I saw Guest and Edie to-night in the darkness. I was going to tell you, but I felt ashamed, thinking you would say what you did just now. But I have met Guest since, and spoken with him. Five minutes ago I heard Sir Mark speaking."

"Great Heavens!" gasped Brettison again. "Then we have brought him here to place wife and husband face to face!"

"Yes," said Stratton hoarsely.

"What is to be done?"

"You must rouse him quietly, and steal out with him. Bring him along under the cliff close up to the inn. While you are getting him there I will go and hire a cart by some means to take us to the next place; failing that, I'll arrange with some fishermen to run us along the coast in their boat to Saint Malo. You understand?"

"Yes," said Brettison. "I understand, but it is impossible."

"Perhaps; but this is the time to perform impossibilities. It must be done!"

"I tell you it is impossible," said Brettison slowly. "At the first attempt to rouse him there would be a scene. He would turn obstinate and enraged. He is restless, as I told you. I should have to awaken the people here; for I could not force him to leave by the window, and this would precipitate the discovery, perhaps bring Sir Mark and your friend Guest down from the place above."

"I tell you it must be done," said Stratton, but with less conviction.

"You know it cannot be," said Brettison firmly. "I am certain that he would have one of his fits. Think of the consequences then."

"I do," whispered Stratton; "and the thoughts are maddening. What's that?"

"Speak lower. It was Barron moving in his room. Look here; there need be no discovery if we are cool and cautious. It is absurd to attempt anything now. Wait till the morning. Let him get up at his usual time. He will be quiet and manageable then. I will keep him in, and wait till the Jerrolds are gone out—they are sure to go—most likely to sea for a sail—and then join you at the inn, where you can have a carriage or boat waiting. Then we must escape just as we stand; our luggage could be fetched another time. We can be going to take him for a drive."

Stratton was silent.

"It is the only way, I'm sure," whispered Brettison.

"Yes," said Stratton, with a sigh; "I am afraid you are right."

"I am sure I am."

"Yes," said Stratton. "Hist! is that he moving again?"

"And talking in his sleep. But you are sure there is no doubt?"

"Doubt, man? No. Yes, it must be as you say; but, mind, I shall be a prisoner at the inn. I cannot stir out. You must give me warning when you will come."

"And you must not speak or notice him."

"Oh, we must risk all that," said Stratton more loudly. "Our only course is at all risks to get him right away."

"Hush! Be silent. Now go."

Stratton hesitated as he heard a low muttering again in the next room; but Brettison pressed his hand and thrust him away.

"Go," he said, and softly closed the window, while, after standing listening for a few moments, Stratton moved away with a strange foreboding of coming peril, and walked back beneath the cliff to the inn, where the sleepy servant admitted him with a sigh of relief, and wondered how les Anglais could be so strange and care so little for their beds.



CHAPTER FIFTY TWO.

THE CULMINATION OF DESPAIR.

Stratton went to his room, put out his light, and threw open the casement to sit and listen to the wash and rush of the coming tide. It was darker than ever, for the sea fog had grown dense, and the water sobbed and moaned among the rocks, and splashed against the sides of the fishing boats in a way that in the silence of the night sounded mysterious and strange.

All this added to Stratton's depression, and the sense of coming trouble. It was impossible to pass it over as imaginary, face to face as he was with the terrible difficulties before him; for in that tiny place, unless Barron was hurried away, a meeting was imminent, and it was his doing—his.

Guest laughed at the idea of his presence there being due to fate, he recalled; but how else could he think of the strange complication but as being wrought out by a greater directing hand? "And for what?" he muttered. Could it be only to inflict fresh torture upon a gentle, loving woman?

The mental outlook was as black and misty as that across the sands to the moaning, sighing sea; and as Stratton sat there, with the damp, soft air cooling his brow, he longed for rest, and thought of the peace and gentle calm that he might find if he could take a boat and sail right away into the soft, black darkness.

He shook his head mournfully, though, for he knew that he could not sail away from his thoughts, and that it would be the act of a coward to try and escape from the sufferings which fell to his lot.

To sleep was impossible. He did not even think of lying down, but sat there waiting for the first streaks of day with the face of Myra always before him, her eyes looking gravely into his with a sweet, trustful tenderness, which made him recall her visit to his chambers that night when she knelt before him with her arms outstretched to take him to her breast, and he asked himself why he had shrunk from her—why he had not crushed down conscience, and the horror of his having slain her husband, and taken her away—anywhere so that they two could have been together far from the world and its ways.

For his dread had been his own making. It was not real. The shot was an accident, not even dealt by his own hand, and the man had lived. Myra would have been his, and they might have been happy.

Was it too late, even now? If he could only reach her ear and tell her how all stood. She loved him—he knew that. Once with Myra meant till death, and she would follow him to the world's end.

"And I sit here," he cried, and started from his seat, "when she is there yonder waiting for me. A word would rouse her from her sleep, if she does sleep. She may be sitting at her window even now, wakeful and wretched as I, and ready to trust me, to let me lead her far away from all this misery and despair. Heaven never could mean us to suffer as we do. It is a natural prompting. She must be waiting for me now."

The moments of exaltation passed, and he sank down again to bury his face in his hands, knowing that it was all the madness of a despairing man.

No; he could do nothing but that which he and Brettison had planned— nothing but wait for the morning, which was yet hours away.

He grew calmer as the night passed on; firmer, too, and there was a quiet determination in his thoughts as he felt that some day Myra would know all that he had done, and perhaps, after all, happiness might be theirs.

For hope came with the approach of day, and when at last the first pale dawn appeared in the east, and by degrees there was a delicious opalescent tint on the waves, where a soft breeze was slowly wafting away the mist, it was a calm, grave, thoughtful man, nerved to the day's task, who went forth with the knowledge that the people of the inn were already stirring, for, as he stepped out, a casement was opened, and the landlady greeted him with the customary bon jour.

Stratton returned the greeting, and told her his requirements—a sailing boat and men to take him and his friends for a good long cruise.

"Ah, yes!" said the landlady; "of course, and monsieur would pay them well,"—and at another time there were Jacques, and Jean, and Andre, and many more who would have been so glad—for it was going to be a day superb: look at the light on the water like the silver and sheen upon a mackerel, to prove her words—but the hands went out last night, and would not return in time from the fishing.

"But was there no one else?"

"Not a soul, monsieur. Why, there was a great nobleman—an old sea admiral—English, at the little chateau who had sent only last night, wanting a boat to sail with the beautiful ladies he had brought, one of whom was a stately old marquise, at least, with hair grey; but no, he could not have a boat for any money. Why could not monsieur take his sick friend for a beautiful long drive?"

Stratton jumped at the proposal.

"Yes; that would do," he said.

"Then Guillaume should have the horse and chaise ready at any time monsieur chose to name."

A sense of relief came over Stratton as he finished his arrangements. The car was to be waiting till the sick friend was brought over, and then they would start at once—after breakfast—no, perhaps sooner. It was to be ready for them to start at any time; for the invalid was capricious; and it was uncertain when they would come back.

Stratton could do no more but wait. He dared not show himself for fear the admiral might be out early; and he shuddered at the idea of the old man strolling about on the sands and encountering Brettison and his charge.

But he felt that his old friend would take care, and, going back to his rooms with the intention of forcing himself to wait patiently, he watched the sun rise in all its glory over the sea of fire, while the clouds and mists around were one blaze of effulgent hues.

It was impossible to help a feeling of elation as nature smiled upon him full of hope and joy; and the determination to act manfully and well grew and grew in Stratton's breast as, in obedience to a thought, he went to where a glass hung in the passage of the little inn, and took it up to his window.

It was with throbbing heart that he adjusted it, and brought it to bear upon the pretty little chateau high upon the cliff, covered with creepers, and with its terrace garden a mass of flowers.

He scanned window after window, but not a soul was visible, and after a time he brought it to bear on the fisher's cottage at the foot of the cliff, where he saw the smoke curling up clear and blue, though it was quite a mile away. Dale's brawny French nurse stood outside in the early morning sunshine knitting. The fisherman was at his boat making some repairs, where it lay bottom upward, and his wife was going in and out busy over household affairs, but it was too early for sign of the other occupants.

After a time Stratton was summoned to breakfast, and, after swallowing a little bread and coffee hastily, he made sure that the car and driver were ready, and with the excitement growing, returned to his place of observation with the glass, where he was seen by the landlady, who remarked to herself how anxious monsieur was about his friend.

At that moment the glass was trembling, and its eyepiece seemed blurred; for it was fixed upon the figure of a tall, graceful woman, standing outside one of the windows in the terrace garden of the little chateau, with a hand raised to shade her eyes, as she looked along the coast line, but appeared to be gazing straight at where Stratton watched her with the glass.

One minute of delirious joy as he observed her features, then all was blurred, and he closed up the glass; he dared not gaze, for his brain swam, and when the insane desire to look once more came over him, and he yielded, the figure in its soft, white, clinging drapery, was gone, and he sternly turned the glass upon the cottage, to watch for the coming of Brettison, till his eyes refused to distinguish the place.

He felt that they ought to be on their way now, while the occupants of the house above were at their morning meal; but there was still no sign, and another hour passed full of agony for Stratton, till he forced himself to believe that Brettison was acting for the best, and that there must be good reason for his keeping back.

He took the glass again, and concluded why his friend had not come; for he saw a group now upon the terrace, and directly after could trace their descent beyond the cottage to the sands—the admiral first, with Myra leaning on his arm, then the stately figure of Miss Jerrold, and lastly Edie and Guest; and all so close to him that he could almost read the expression on their features as they stopped and walked past the cottage as if about to come in his direction.

Stratton's heart beat, for there was the possibility of Barron appearing at the cottage door, but they turned again, went on toward the south-east and soon disappeared beyond the rocks which lay scattered along the shore.

"Brettison will be here directly," thought Stratton, and after watching for a few minutes a thought struck him: they would perhaps come along the path at the top of the cliff, and in the belief that this might be so he hurried out to warn the car driver to be ready.

Hardly had he returned to his room when the landlady appeared to say that a boy was there to deliver a message to him alone, and, upon going out, a heavy looking peasant announced that he was to go on to the cottage.

Stratton caught up his hat and started, full of anxiety, for it was evident that Brettison was having trouble with their charge, who was perhaps obstinate and fretful, while before he was half-way there he began to regret not bringing the car, so that they might have started at once.

But he felt the next moment that it was folly to bring a wheeled vehicle down upon that heavy sand, and keeping a sharp lookout for those he wished to avoid, and taking advantage of every sheltering rock, he at length reached the cottage, at whose door he was met by the fisherman.

Stratton saw at a glance that something was wrong; but before he could get out a word the fisherman's wife, who was evidently suffering from fear, stammered that she was desolated to have to send for the monsieur.

"Where is my friend?" said Stratton sharply.

"In his chamber, monsieur, exceedingly ill."

Stratton hurried in, to find Brettison in bed looking pinched of cheek, his eyes sunken and blue beneath the lids, and perfectly insensible.

"What does this mean?" cried Stratton.

"We did not hear the gentleman moving this morning, but my husband heard him stirring in the night, sir; oh, yes; and when I went to call him he answered so strangely that I entered and gave a cry, for he looked as if he was going to the death, monsieur.

"I wanted to send for you, but he forbade me. He said he would be better soon, and I made him tea, and gave him some cognac, and he grew better, then worse, then better again. It is something bad with his throat, monsieur. Look, it is—all worse, quite blue."

Stratton gazed at the livid marks in horror.

"Where is Mr Cousin, our invalid?" he said, beginning to tremble now.

"Oh, he, monsieur, he insisted upon going out on the sands with his attendant Margot."

"Which way?" gasped Stratton.

"Yonder, monsieur," said the woman, pointing to the south-east.

"Here, get cognac; bathe his face," panted Stratton, half wild now with horror; "and send someone for the nearest doctor. Quick. I shall be back soon—if I live," he muttered as he rushed off through the deep, loose sand to find and bring back their charge before he encountered the Jerrolds on the beach.

He could not see far for the rocks that strewed the shore, which was apparently deserted. The sun beat down upon his head, and the effort to advance grew more painful, and yet he passed through maze after maze of stones fallen in huge masses from the cliffs above, without seeing a sign, till all at once, as he passed round one huge mass, beyond which lay scores of others covered with barnacle and weed, he heard voices, and stopped short, hidden from the group before him by one of the rocks.

His toil had been in vain, and a jealous, maddening pang shot through him.

There, some forty yards away, sat Barron upon a huge boulder, his back propped against a rock, and his attendant knitting a short distance back, while Miss Jerrold sat on the sands reading beneath a great sunshade. The admiral was smoking his cigar, looking down at Barron; Edie and Guest were together; and Myra, pale, gentle, and with a smile upon her lip, was offering the invalid a bunch of grapes, which he was gently taking from her hand.

"The past condoned," said Stratton to himself; "the future—well, he is her husband, after all. Great Heavens, am I really mad, or is all this a waking dream?"

He staggered back and nearly fell, so terrible was the rush of horror through his brain, but he could not draw away his eyes, and he saw that Barron was speaking and holding out his hand—that Myra responded by laying hers within his palm, and the fingers closed upon it—fingers that not many hours back must have held Brettison's throat in a deadly grip.



CHAPTER FIFTY THREE.

JULES IS FROM HOME.

"And that is the woman who told me she loved me!" said Stratton as he drew back behind the rocks and walked slowly away.

There was a strangely mingled feeling in his breast; one moment it was horror, the next disgust, that they two should join hands: she so young and beautiful, he prematurely aged and little better than an idiot. Then it was misery—then despair, which swept over his soul to join forces and harrow him so that he felt that he could bear no more.

It was the thought of Brettison that saved him just as the blood was rushing to his head and a stroke was imminent.

He had left his friend apparently dying, and had rushed off to save Myra.

"While I was wanted there," he muttered in a weak, piteous way. "Ah, it has all been a dream, and now I am awake. Poor Brettison, my best friend after all."

For a few moments the blood flushed to his temples in his resentment against Myra, and then against Guest; for, after all that he had said to him on the past night, how could he entirely accept the position he occupied and remain tacit and content there with that man in his company?

"Another slave to a woman's charms!" he said, with a bitter laugh. "Poor old Percy! how can I blame him after what I have done myself for a weak, contemptible woman's sake?"

He stopped short, grinding his teeth together in resentment against himself; for Myra's sadly wasted face rose before him with her eyes full of reproach.

"It is not true," he cried; "it is not true. She could not help herself. They have driven her to it, or else—No, no, I cannot think."

He moved on toward the cottage, threading his way more by instinct than sight among the rocks, but only to stop short again, horrified by the thought that now assailed him. That man—Barron or Dale—it was not safe that he should be trusted with Myra. It was madness after what had taken place.

He thrust his fingers into his ears as if to shut out the voice that seemed to urge these things upon him; but the voice was within, and he hastened on more rapidly till he reached the cottage, where the fisherman's wife was bathing Brettison's forehead, and she gave him a frightened look as he entered.

His old friend's eyes were opened, and he looked wildly at Stratton as he entered, and feebly raised one hand.

"Dale!" he whispered as he clung to Stratton.

"Hush! don't talk."

"I—must," he said feebly. "Mind that he does not leave the place. To-night you must get help and take him away."

"I am right, then—he did attack you?"

"Yes, not long after you had gone. I was asleep, when I was awakened with a start, thinking you had returned, but I was borne back directly. He had me by the throat. Malcolm, lad, I thought it was all over. I struggled, but he was too strong. I remember thinking of your words, and then all was blank till I saw a light in the room, and found these people attending me. I had awakened them with my groans. They do not grasp the truth. Don't tell them. Let them think it is an affection of the throat, but we must never trust him again."

"There will be no need," said Stratton bitterly.

"What do you mean?"

"He has gone."

"You have let him escape? No; you have handed him over to the police. Oh, my dear boy, you shouldn't have done that. The man is mad."

"I told you I should not do so," said Stratton coldly. "You are wrong."

"But you stand there. Good Heavens, man! Those two may meet. Don't mind me. I am better now. Go at once."

"No, I shall not leave you till you are fit to move."

"It is not an illness, but an injury, which will soon pass off. Go at once. Man, do you not see that he may find her, after all."

"He has found her," said Stratton slowly, and speaking in a strangely mechanical way.

"What!"

"Or they have found him." And he told the old man all he had seen.

Brettison heard him to the end, and then faintly, but with conviction in his tones, he cried:

"Impossible! It cannot be true."

Stratton looked at him wistfully, and shook his head.

"No," he said, drawing a deep breath; "it cannot be true."

Brettison, whose breathing was painful, lay back watching his companion with dilated eyes, and then turned to the woman who had drawn back from the bed and waited while her visitor talked to his friend.

"Madame," he said in French, "Monsieur Cousin?"

She turned from the window where she had been watching.

"Out on the sands, monsieur," she said in a startled way. "My good man says he is sitting with the new company who have come since yesterday to the house above."

"Where is your husband?"

"Out, sir. He—he was obliged to go to the ville."

"And still it is impossible," said Stratton slowly as he looked appealingly in the old man's eyes. "It cannot be true. Brettison, tell me that my mind is wandering; all this is more than I can bear."

"Shall I wait, monsieur?" asked the woman, who was trembling visibly.

"No, I am better now," said Brettison. "Leave me with my friend,"—and as soon as they were alone—"I shall not want a doctor now. There is some mystery here, Malcolm, lad, far more than we know."

"Thank God!" said Stratton, sinking into a chair and covering his face with his hands.

"Stratton," cried the old man fiercely, "is it a time to give up weakly like that?"

The stricken man started to his feet, and threw back his head as if his friend's words had suddenly galvanised him into life and action.

"That man is not to be trusted for an hour. You know it, and yet you stand there leaving her in his hands. Even if it were possible that her father has condoned the past, he does not know what is familiar to us. But he has not. Boy, I tell you there is some mistake."

"What shall I do?" said Stratton hoarsely.

"Go to them at once. Tell them of his attack upon me."

"They have forgotten the past, and will say it is the invention of a jealous enemy."

"Then I will go myself," cried the old man; and, feeble though he was, he insisted upon dressing for his self-imposed task.

"They will believe me," he said; "and though I can hardly think there is danger to anyone but us, whom Barron seems instinctively to associate with his injury, Sir Mark must know the facts."

"Yes," said Stratton gravely; "he must know. I will go with you now. He cannot doubt you."

The old man tottered a little, but his strong will supplied the strength, and, taking his stick, they moved toward the door.

"We have done wrong, Stratton," he said; "the man should have been denounced. I ought to have acted more wisely, but at first my only thought was to save you from the consequences of your misfortune, and keep all I knew from ever reaching Myra's ears. Our sin has found us out, and there is nothing for it but to make a clean breast now."

Stratton hesitated for a few moments.

"You are too feeble," he said.

"Oh, yes," cried the woman, who came forward. "Monsieur is too ill to go out. It is horrible that he should be so bad at our poor house."

"You say your husband is out?"

"Oh, yes, monsieur. I begged him not to go, but he said that he must go."

"Not to fetch a doctor?"

"N-no, monsieur," faltered the woman hysterically. "It is not my fault, monsieur; I begged him not to go—and—O Ciel! that it should have happened."

"No one blames you, my good woman," said Stratton as she burst into a hysterical fit of sobbing, while Brettison looked at her strangely. "If he had been here he could have helped my friend down to the sands."

"And monsieur will forgive us," sobbed the woman; "we are poor, honest people, and it is so terrible for your good friend to be like that."

"Quick!" said Brettison. "I am strong enough. Let's get it over before something happens."

He clung to Stratton's arm, and, supporting himself with his stick, he made a brave effort, and, gaining strength out in the soft sea air, he walked slowly but pretty firmly along by the foot of the cliff.

"If Jules would only return," sobbed the woman hysterically. "Oh, that such a misfortune should come upon our home! Poor gentleman! and he bears it like a lamb."



CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR.

BARRON-DALE HAS A RELAPSE.

Brettison's progress was slow, but he refused to sit down and rest.

"We must get there," he said; "we must get there."

Stratton shuddered slightly, and for the moment felt that he ought to press on; but he knew that his words would have ten times the force with the admiral backed up by Brettison's presence, so he restrained himself and helped his companion along till they came in sight of the rocks, a good-sized boat keeping pace with them a couple of hundred yards out, its owners having hard work to stem the current which ran along the shore.

"Is it much farther?" said Brettison at last. "I am weaker than I thought."

"Seventy or eighty yards; just beyond those rocks," cried Stratton.

"Hah, then I am strong enough," cried Brettison, with a sigh of relief; and after a few moments' pause he stepped out again; they passed the rocks, and the doubt which had existed in Stratton's mind as to whether the party would still be where he left them was set at rest. But he started as he saw that they were gathered together as if there were some cause of excitement.

"Come along," he whispered quickly.

They were hurrying along, when there was a joyful cry, and the sturdy Breton woman chosen for Dale's attendant cried out:

"Ah, monsieur; quick! quick! Here—help!"

Stratton quitted Brettison's side and rushed forward, to see, as the group opened, a sight that made his blood boil with rage.

Dale was holding Myra's wrist with his left hand and struggling violently with the admiral and Guest, who were afraid to exert their strength for fear of injuring Myra, who was supported by Margot with one arm, while with her strong fingers she grasped her patient's wrist in turn.

"Quick, monsieur!" cried Margot; "it is a fit. He is half-mad."

Forgetting everything but the fact that Myra was in this scoundrel's grasp, Stratton sprang at him, catching him by the throat to try and make him quit his hold.

"Mr Stratton!" cried Sir Mark in angry amazement.

The name acted like magic. Dale shook himself free of the admiral and Margot, loosening Myra's wrist in the act, and with an angry snarl, like that of some wild beast, fixed his hands on Stratton's throat.

In spite of his last meeting Guest flew to his friend's assistance, and Margot bravely flung her arms about her patient's waist; but in spite of all the man's strength for the moment was gigantic, and, paying no heed to the others, he sought to vent his rage upon Stratton, who felt himself growing weaker and weaker in his enemy's grasp.

Twice over as they swayed here and there he caught sight of Myra's face convulsed with horror while she clung to her cousin, and her look unnerved him so that it would have gone hard with him but for the arrival of a party of four men who had landed from the boat that had kept pace with them along the shore.

One of these was the fisherman, the two others were a couple of gendarmes and another fisher, and the two officers threw themselves into the fray, with the result that the next minute Dale was firmly secured and held.

"This is the man, then," panted one of the officers.

"Yes," said the fisherman from the cottage. "I say he tried to strangle this gentleman in the night at my place. Look at his throat."

"It is quite true," said Brettison.

"And you told us, monsieur," cried the fisherman reproachfully, "that your friend was imbecile, and that we need not fear."

"Yes," said Brettison sadly. "I was wrong, but I have been punished for my sin. Malcolm Stratton," he continued, turning to his friend, who stood there with his breast heaving still, and gazing wildly at Myra, who met his eyes with a piteous look, mingled of gratitude, sorrow, and despair, "I call upon you for the sake of all here to denounce this man to the officers."

"I cannot," said Stratton, with a quick look from Myra to Sir Mark and back. "That task shall never be mine."

"Will monsieur say those words in French?" said the officer who had spoken before, and who was busy brushing the sand from his uniform. "I understand English a little, but I cannot trust myself at a time like this."

"Forgive me, then, Sir Mark," said Brettison firmly, and speaking now in excellent French, "and you, too, my child," he said, taking and kissing Myra's hand. "I have tried for your sake and that of the man I love as a son to spare you pain, but the time has come when this must end. Officers, this man, an imbecile save at rare intervals, when he has these violent homicidal fits, is James Barron, or Dale, a convict escaped from one of the English pris—"

Myra uttered a wild cry and hid her face on her aunt's breast.

"Brettison!" roared Stratton.

"Mr Brettison, have you taken leave of your senses?" cried Sir Mark. "James Barron!"

"Bah!" said the convict, "the game is up. Henderson's my name, Sam Henderson, James Barron's fellow-prisoner and mate. Poor old Dandy Jem was shot dead that night! Where's Stratton?" he cried, with a curious change coming over him. "Ah! there. Now, man, no shuffling. The game's in my hands, you know. Come, pay up like a man. They're waiting for you—at the church—my wife—what's her name—pretty Myra—my mate Jem's widow—gentleman James, sir—all the swell—but I did it—I engraved the notes."

He smiled and chuckled.

"Proud of them. Puzzled the clever ones. The Rothschilds hardly knew, eh, Jem? Well, you always were a swell. And so you mean to marry the gal? Well, I warn you; it's getting too hot. Better cut off together till the scent's cold. There, I've warned you. I thought so: nabbed. All right, gentlemen, I'll come quietly. Easy with my mate. Going to be married this morning. Do you hear, Stratton? married this morning! My wife, you can have her. My little widow. Hush! quiet, will you. We shall never do it. Oh, yes, I'm game. Ugh, hard work. They're after us, and we shall have to rush 'em. Right, Jem. I'll stand any risk. Hold together, and then down the rocks!"

The man's face was working horribly, and his eyes were dilated with excitement as he rambled on wildly, mingling up the past in one tangle of confusion as he, in brief, gave suggestions to the horrified listeners of the various scenes enacted in his life.

"Now, then," he whispered, "ready. Off. Ah!" he shrieked, "don't shoot—don't shoot. Cowards! Ugh! the water—a long swim—but it's for life—for life; and poor old Jem—handsome Jem, shot—shot!"

The man's whole manner changed; the twitching of the muscles, the excited playing of the nerves, and the wild look in the eyes gave place to the vacant, heavy stare, and his hand rose slowly to his neck, and played about the back of his ear.

"Shot," he said, "shot," looking up at the admiral and smiling. "A bullet—behind the ear—never found it yet—never found—"

"Quick!" cried Stratton, stepping forward so as to hide the ghastly contortions that crossed the man's face from the ladies clinging together in a frightened group.

"Yes," said Brettison, with a sigh of relief, "for Heaven's sake, officers, take him away."

They bore him instantly toward the boat, just as Myra uttered a low sigh and fainted dead away.

It was some minutes before she came to again, to find Stratton kneeling by her side holding her hand, while the others stood a little aloof.

For a few moments there was a wild and wondering look in her eyes, but it was softened directly by her tears, as she whispered:

"I don't quite grasp it all, Malcolm. Only tell me that is it true— that you really love me, dear?"

"As true as that I can hold your hand in mine, clear from all stain, and that you are free—my love, my wife."

"But," cried the admiral in the further explanations which ensued, "do I understand, my lad, that you all along took this man for Dale?"

"Of course."

"But you had surely seen him at my house?"

"I saw from a distance the man arrested on the wedding morn, but he was surrounded by the crowd, and I never caught his face."

"But you were present at the trial," said Brettison.

"No. I never entered the court. I could not go to gloat over my rival's fall. I merely waited for the result."

"I remember now; I saw you waiting there," said Brettison thoughtfully. "And I, of course, saw the prisoners side by side, but from the gallery, right behind and far above. I never caught a glimpse of either face until they turned to leave the dock, and then it was this man's only— the other prisoner went first."

"And I could not see in this wretched madman's altered features the scoundrel I had seen in court!" cried the admiral.

"Who could have dreamed it was the same?" cried Guest. "Poor wretch! his face was like an old well-worn shilling till that fit came on. Here! Mal, old fellow, quick!"

"It is nothing—nothing," said Brettison faintly as Stratton saved him from a heavy fall. "My encounter last night—a little giddy still. Your arm, my boy; I'm better now. Well; for have I not saved you both— brought you full happiness and joy?"



CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE.

THE LAST CLOUD.

"Jules, you are a bad—a naughty!" cried Margot angrily. "You and your wife never tell me of what takes place while I sleep; you send me out with my patient, and never tell me he is dangerous; and then you rob me of my bread by getting him sent away. It is ruin, and I must go back to the town and starve."

"Never," cried a pleasant little voice behind her; and she turned sharply round to see Edie and Guest, the former smiling through her tears. "Have no fear about that, my poor Margot. Come up to the house and help, as my poor cousin is very weak and ill."

"My faith, dear miss, I will," cried the sturdy Breton woman.

In fact, Margot's hands were pretty full during the next month, for she had two patients to tend—at the little chateau and in the cottage just below.

"Ah! bah, madame," she said, looking up from her knitting. "What do I do? Nothing. The beloved miss grows better and more beautiful day by day, and is it I? Is it the good physician come from Saint Malo? Name of a little cider apple! no. Look at the dear old monsieur there."

She pointed with a knitting needle to where Brettison sat, propped up in a chair in the shadow of the rock with a table before him, and Miss Jerrold, who looked very old and grey and stately, turned her head, nodded, and went on with the embroidery about which her busy fingers played.

"He says to me, 'You must go up on the cliffs this morning, Margot, and bring me every flower you can find.' I go, madame, and—"

"One moment, Margot; you always forget I am mademoiselle, not madame."

"The greater the pity, mad'moiselle. You so young looking still you should be the beautiful mother of many children, or a widow like me. What of the monsieur? I take him every morning all the flowers, and there, see, he is as happy with them as a little child. Of my other sick one—look at her—"

She pointed with the other needle just set free to where Myra and Stratton were also seated in the shade gazing dreamily out to where the anchored sailing boats rose and fell upon the calm blue water.

Aunt Jerrold looked through her half-closed eyes, smiled and nodded again.

"Faith of a good woman!" said Margot, "does she want a nurse, does she want a physician? No. The good doctor is by her side, and ever since the day when the bad man was taken I have seen the beautiful brown of the sea air and the rose of the sun come into her cheeks. It is a folly my being here now, but if mademoiselle and the great sea captain will keep my faithful services till they marry and be happy; and oh, mademoiselle," cried Margot, turning her eyes up toward the sky, and displaying her white teeth, "the way that I adore the dear, dear little children!"

"Margot!" cried Miss Jerrold austerely, and she rose and walked away.

"Faith of a good woman! what have I said?" muttered Margot, looking now at where Guest and Edie had gone down to a rock pool in which they were fishing with their hands for prawns, but catching each other's fingers instead deep down under the weeds. "They will all marry, and very soon. Ah! those old maids!"

The one to whom she specially referred had gone to sit down now by her brother, who was scanning a vessel in the offing with his glass.

"French man-of-war, Rebecca," he said. "Fine vessel, but only a confounded imitation of one of ours."

"Yes, dear, I suppose so," said his sister, and she went on with her embroidery.

"Are you getting tired of the place, Mark?" she said suddenly.

"Eh? Tired! What for? It's beautiful and calm, and there's water and a bit of shipping, and everyone seems to be happy and comfortable. Tired? No! Are you?"

"Oh, no, dear, only I thought we could not go on much longer like this."

"Let fate alter it, then," said the admiral gruffly. "Don't catch me at it. Myra hasn't suggested such a thing."

"She? No," said Miss Jerrold quickly. "O Mark!" she cried, "I am so glad to see her happy once again."

"God bless her, yes. I think she must have had all the trouble meant for her life in one big storm, so that she may have a calm passage right to the end."

"I pray that it may be so," said Aunt Jerrold fervently. "How happy she looks."

"Yes," said Sir Mark, closing the glass through which he had watched her while his sister spoke.

They were right, for the calm had come. Seated hand in hand, Stratton had told Myra in the soft, dim light of evening, while the waters murmured at her feet, all the tangle of his troubles, and she had literally forced him to tell her all again and again, for the narrative was never tedious to her as a twice told tale, while the knowledge of all that he had suffered for her sake drew the bond between them in a faster knot.

On this particular morning, when all was bright and sunny, there yet was one cloud near, for a servant came out from the cottage to say that monsieur was wanted.

Stratton sprang up, and Myra rose and clung to his arm, her eyes dilating with the dread of some new trouble. But he at once calmed her.

"There can be no trouble now that we could not meet," he whispered; and she sank back in her seat to watch him till he disappeared within the door.

The officer who had arrested Henderson was standing in the little room Stratton used, and with him a thin, earnest looking man in black, who seemed to wear an official uniform as well as air.

Bows were exchanged, and then the latter produced some papers.

"I have come, monsieur, respecting the man Barron-Dale," he said in very good English. "As you know, monsieur, we have been in communication with the English authorities, and, as we have reported to you from time to time, there has been a reluctance on their part to investigate the matter."

"Yes, I have heard all this," said Stratton, trying to be calm.

"They were disposed to treat him as an impostor, and at last sent us word definitely that Barron-Dale and Henderson certainly died in their attempt to escape from your great prison. The correspondence has gone on, monsieur, till now, and I believe that the English authorities were about to send an officer to investigate the matter; but, as you have been informed, the man has been growing worse and worse while ill in the infirmary of the prison at Barville. Yesterday he had a bad attack—a fit."

He paused for a moment or two, looking gravely at Stratton.

"The difficulty is solved now, monsieur," said the officer gravely. "He did not recover from the fit. Our doctors have found the cause of those attacks—a pistol bullet was imbedded close to the brain."

"The bullet from his own pistol," thought Stratton. "The shot he meant for me."

A few minutes after Stratton left the officer, and went straight to where Myra was waiting, trembling with excitement.

"There is some fresh peril, Malcolm," she cried as she caught his hand.

"No, dearest," he said slowly; "the last cloud has passed away."

THE END.