said, but his voice shook.

The Alien said never a word; each looked the other hard in the eyes,
paling.

'The League makes good all loss,' said Philip, low. 'And if so be that
only some forgery of a loss can cover a fair claim, you may count on
my--what you will--as you please.'

Christian refused hearing. Flung down for unattainable sleep he lay
stretched, covering his head to inspect by the light of darkness his
wrongs, and Philip's treason, that left to him nothing but a choice of
transgression.

The blackness stood higher and crept on. The sun was captured, shorn,
disgraced, and sent bald on his way; a narrow streak of red bleeding
upon the waters died slowly; all else was slate-black. Above the gloom of
the cliffs the sky showed blanched, clear and pale. Ghostly white the
sea-birds rose and fell. The tide was rising, deepening the note of the
surf; between the warders white columns leapt up with great gasps.

It was Rhoda's name that Philip whispered over, to strengthen his heart
at the perilous outlook. The make of his love had a certain pride in
overbearing such weak scruples as a tough conscience permitted. Half he
feared that the Alien's poor wits had yet not recognised the only path
left open by a skilful provision; for there he lay motionless, with the
slow breath of untroubled sleep. He would not fear him; with Rhoda's
name, with hope on the unseen sail, he fortified his heart.

In the deep water unshadowed by the boat a darkness slid, catching his
eye. He peered, but it was gone. His heart stood in his throat; a palsy
of terror shook him. Oh speak, speak, St. Mary, St. Margaret, St. Faith,
help a poor body--a poor soul!

When he could stir he headed about, and slunk away for the open, out of
the accursed region. A draught of wine steadied him somewhat, and softly
overstepping Christian he roused the Adventurer, to get comfort of human
speech. He told of the coming storm, he told of the coming sail, but of
that other thing he said nothing. Yet presently the Adventurer asked why
he shook. 'It is for cold,' and he drank again. And presently asked, what
did he look for over the side? 'A shark's fin,' he said, 'that I thought
I saw,' and he drank again.

At their feet Christian lay motionless, heeding nothing outside his
darkness. Yet presently the Adventurer said further: 'He sleeps. From
what disquiet should you eye him so?'

'If you list you shall know of his past,' muttered Philip. His speech was