for many an hour yet.

And there was only one boat! What had become of all the others--of the
threatened invasion in force? He sat and watched it in gloomy wonder.

The boat came racing on. As she cleared Breniere her white sail turned
to red gold, and the sea below grew purple. There was something white in
her bows. He got up heavily, doggedly, forced to it against his will,
and walked along the ridge to the eastern point which commanded the
landing-place on that side.

There was, without doubt, something white in the bows of the boat, and
as he stood gazing at it, it took, to his dazed imagination, the strange
form of Nance waving joyful hands to him.

He drew his hands across his eyes. The storm had been sore on them.

The bristling waves of the Race burst in sheets of spray under the
glancing bows, but the white spray and the white figure and the pointed
white sail were all ablaze in the last rays of the sun, and they all
swam before him as if his head was going round.

She came round Quette d'Amont with a fine sweep, like one bound on
business of which she had no reason to be ashamed, and dropped her sail
and lay in the shelter of the rock.

And the white figure in the bows was truly Nance, and she was standing
and waving and calling to him. And the grey-headed man aft was surely
Philip Guille, the Senechal, and the faces of the rest were all
friendly.

He stumbled hastily down to the lower ledges, but the rush and the roar
there drowned their voices.

What were they trying to tell him? What could they want of him?

The Senechal was standing, hands to mouth, waiting his chance. The
restless waters below drew back for a moment to gather for a leap, and
the big voice came booming across the tumult--

"Jump! We'll pick you up! All is well!"

And Gard, without a moment's hesitation, sprang out into the marbled
foam, and struck out for the boat.

They were all friendly hands that gripped him and hauled him over the
side, and patted him on the back to get the water out of him--all
friendly faces that were turned to him; and the dearest face of all,
lighted with a heavenly gladness, was to him as the face of an angel.

"Tell me!" he gasped, still all astream, wits and clothes alike. And it
was the Senechal who told him.

"Peter Mauger was killed last night, at the same place as Tom Hamon, and
in the same way. So these hot-blooded thickheads are convinced at last
that it wasn't your work."

"Peter Mauge