s formed itself
upon the monotonous chant, the intervals grew shorter, the mule broke
into a trot, and then the whole vast multitude fell into a weird,
rhythmical, jogging quick step at her side.

Whatever was the intent of this invasion of the Mission and her own
strange abduction, she was relieved by noticing that they were going in
the same direction as that taken by Hurlstone an hour before. Either he
was cognizant of their movements, and, being powerless to prevent their
attack on the church, had stipulated they were to bring her to him in
safety, or else he was calculating to intercept them on the way. The fog
prevented her from forming any estimation of the numbers that surrounded
her, or if the Padre and Mrs. Markham were possibly preceding her as
captives in the vanguard. She felt the breath of the sea, and knew they
were traveling along the shore; the monotonous chant and jogging motion
gradually dulled her active terror to an apathetic resignation, in which
occasionally her senses seemed to swoon and swim in the dreamy radiance
through which they passed; at times it seemed a dream or nightmare with
which she was hopelessly struggling; at times she was taking part in an
unhallowed pageant, or some heathen sacrificial procession of which she
was the destined victim.

She had no consciousness of how long the hideous journey lasted. Her
benumbed senses were suddenly awakened by a shock; the chant had ceased,
the moving mass in which she was imbedded rolled forward once more as
if by its own elasticity, and then receded again with a jar that almost
unseated her. Then the inarticulate murmur was overborne by a voice. It
was HIS! She turned blindly towards it; but before she could utter the
cry that rose to her lips, she was again lifted from the saddle, carried
forward, and gently placed upon what seemed to be a moss-grown bank.
Opening her half swimming eyes she recognized the Indian cross. The
crowd seemed to recede before her. Her eyes closed again as a strong arm
passed around her waist.

"Speak to me, Miss Keene--Eleanor--my darling!" said Hurlstone's voice.
"O my God! they have killed her!"

With an effort she moved her head and tried to smile. Their eyes, and
then their lips met; she fainted.

When she struggled to her senses again, she was lying in the
stern-sheets of the Excelsior's boat, supported on Mrs. Markham's
shoulder. For an instant the floating veil of fog around her, and the
rhythmical move