t last unsteadily.

"Where?" she asked breathlessly.

He did not speak, but waved an open hand that gave her the freedom of
choice. It was his surrender to the wild spirit of the Coast, and he
grasped the head of the brass image the tighter when he had done it.
She and Fate must guide now; it rested with him only to break
opposing heads.

She smiled and shivered. "Come on, then," she said, and started
before him.

They traversed perhaps a score of roofs enclosed with high parapets,
on to each of which he lifted her, hands in her armpits, swinging her
cleanly to the level of his face and planting her easily and squarely
on the coping. He welcomed each opportunity to take hold of her and
put out the strength of his muscles, and she sat where he placed her,
smiling and silent, while he clambered up and dropped down on the
other side.

At length a creaking wooden stair that hung precariously on the sheer
side of a house brought them again to the ground level. It was
another gloomy alley into which they descended, and the darkness
about him and the mud underfoot struck Dawson with a sense of being
again in familiar surroundings. The woman's hand slid into his as
he stood, and they started along again together.

The alley seemed to be better frequented than that of which he
already had experience. More than once dark, sheeted figures passed
them by, noiseless save for the underfoot swish in the mud, and
presently the alley widened into a little square, at one side of
which there was a fresh rustle of green things. At the side of it a
dim light showed through a big open door, from which came a musical
murmur of voices, and Dawson recognized a church.

"The Little Garden of St. Sebastien," murmured the woman, and led him
on to cross the square. A figure that had been hidden in the shadow
now lounged forth; and revealed itself to them as a man in uniform.
He stood across their way, and accosted the woman briefly in
Portuguese.

Dawson stood fidgeting while she spoke with him. He seemed to be
repeating a brief phrase over and over again, harshly and irritably;
but she was cajoling, remonstrating, arguing, as he had seen her
argue in that ill-fated room an hour back.

"What's the matter with him?" demanded Dawson impatiently.

"He says he won't let me go," answered the woman, with a tone of
despair in her voice.

"The devil he won't! What's he got to do with it?"

"Oh, these little policemen, they always arrest me