owing an interest in the embarkation of the
lady. He laid the cloaks and plaids for her in the bottom of the boat,
and spoke cheerfully to her--almost jokingly--of the uncertainty of
their destination. He lifted her in himself, and placed Helsa beside
her; and then his men dared not show further unwillingness but by
silence.

Lady Carse raised herself and beckoned to Annie. Annie leaned over to
her, and said, "Dear Lady Carse, you look very pale. It is not too late
to say you will come home with me."

Lady Carse tried to laugh; but it was no laugh, but a convulsion. She
struggled to say, "I shall do very well presently, when I feel I am
free. It is only the last prison airs that poison me. If we never meet
again--"

"We shall not meet in life, Lady Carse. I shall pray for you."

"I know you will. And I--I wished to say--but I cannot--"

"I know what you would say. Lie down and rest. God be with you!"

All appeared calm and right on board the boat, as long as Annie could
watch its course in the harbour. When it disappeared behind a headland,
she returned home to look for it again. She saw it soon, and for some
time, for it coasted the island to the northernmost point for the chance
of being unseen to the last possible moment. It was evidently
proceeding steadily on its course, and Annie hoped that the sense of
freedom might be acting as a restorative for the hour to the dying
woman. Those on board hoped the same; for the lady, when she had
covered her face with a handkerchief, lay very still.

"She looks comfortable," whispered the President to Sir Alexander. "Can
you suggest anything more that we can do?"

"Better let her sleep while she can, my lord. She appears comfortable
at present."

Three more hours passed without anything being observable in Lady Carse,
but such slight movements now and then as showed that she was not
asleep. She then drew the handkerchief from her face and looked up at
Helsa, who exclaimed at the change in the countenance. The President
bent over her, and caught her words--

"It is not your fault--but I am dying. But I am sure I should have died
on land, and before this. And I have escaped! Tell my husband so."

"I will. Shall I raise you?"

"No; take no notice. I cannot bear to be pitied. I will not be pitied;
as this was my own act. But it is hard--"

"It _is_ hard: but you have only to pass one other threshold
courageously, and then you are free indee