It was wide and deep
enough for us--plenty; but a frigate's tonnage would have her troubles,
if she tried to follow.

We weathered the first bend. Before us was another bend. I remembered
now that years before, when I was a little fellow, I had come in and out
of this very place. I began to recollect dimly that after a while it
came to the open sea again some miles to the north.

We were almost to the other entrance when he ordered the _Bess_ hove-to
and the gig lowered. Into it went the strong-box and the Cunninghams and
Ubbo. "And you, too, Guy." He was looking at me queerly. "Mr. Cunningham
is still weak. And Shiela, brave as she is, is only a woman--a girl.
Will you see that they are landed safely? That is the main shore. See
that their luggage is carried up to the top of that hill. In the creek
beyond that hill is an old darky who will take them in his little
sharpie by way of a back river to Savannah."

And so I was to have a few more minutes with her. At the gangway he took
my hand and held it while he said, "You're weak yet--don't hurry. Those
two frigates won't follow us in here." I remember wondering why only
Ubbo was in the boat besides ourselves; but I was too excited at the
thought of so soon landing her to think logically. As I was about to
step into the gig he whispered, "Take good care of her, won't you, Guy?"

"Why, of course, sir."

"That's the boy." He pressed my hand.

We shoved off, Ubbo rowing. In two minutes we were on the beach. I was
still too weak to be of much help to Ubbo with the strong-box, and so it
took us some time to get it to the top of the hill. We covered it with
sand and brush to guard against a possible landing party from the
frigates. Shiela's idea that was, and it delayed us another few minutes.

I turned to go. Shiela, she was nervous too, but smiling. "Shiela--"

"You're not going back to the ship?"

"But I must--I must."

"No, you're not--and you must not. Here." She had taken the bewaxed and
beribboned package from her little handbag. It was addressed to "Guy
Villard, Esq., Villard Manor, Chatham County, Ga."

"But who is he?"

"Who is he? Who are you?"

"Guy Blaise."

"No, you're not. Open it and read. Or wait, let me read it."

And it is true that not till then did I suspect. I thought that I might
have been his son, or the son of some wild friend, born of a marriage
on the West Coast or other foreign parts. But of this thing I never had
a suspicion.

I