"

Stumbling over the sand, he fell beside the man whose soul cried in
vain unto Robert Baldry to return and claim his vengeance, and wrenched
at the hand that seemed to have grown to the sword-hilt. "You are not
kind!" he wailed. "Oh, let me have it!"

"Kind!" echoed Ferne, slowly. "In this sick universe there is no
kindness--no, nor never was! There is the space between rack and torch."
In the flashing of the lightning he loosed his rigid clasp, and the
sword, clanking against the scabbard, fell upon the sand. The lightning
widened into a sheet of pale violet and the surf broke with a deeper
voice. "Canst thou not find me, O mine enemy?" cried Ferne, aloud.

Presently, the boy yet clinging to him, he sank down beside him on the
sand. "Sleep, boy; sleep," he said. "Now I know that the gulf is fixed
indeed, and that they lie who say the ghost returns."

"It is near the dawning," said the boy. "Do you rest, master, and I will
watch."

"Nay," answered the other. "I have pictures to look upon.... Well, well,
lay thy head upon the sand and dream of a merry world, and I myself
will close my eyes. An he will, he may take me sleeping."

Robin slept and dreamed of Ferne House and the horns of the hunters. At
last the horns came so loudly over the hills that he awakened, to find
himself lying alone on the sand in a great and solemn flush of dawn. He
started up with a beating heart; but there, coming towards him from a
bath in the misty sea, was his master, dressed, and with his sword again
in its sheath. As he made closer approach, the strengthening dawn showed
the distinction of form and countenance. To the latter had returned the
stillness and the worn beauty of yesterday, before the bark from
Pampatar had brought news. The head was bared, and the light fell
curiously upon the short and waving hair, imparting to it, as it seemed,
some quality of its own. Robin, beholding, stumbled to his feet, staring
and trembling.

"Why dost thou shake so?" asked the Captain of the _Sea Wraith_. "And
thou art as white as is the sand! God forfend that the fever be
on thee!"

More nearly the old voice of before these evil days of low, stern
utterance! More nearly the old, kindly touch! Robin-a-dale, suddenly
emboldened, caught at hand and arm and burst into a passionate outcry, a
frenzy of entreaty. "Home! home! may we not go home now? They're all
dead--Captain Robert Baldry and Ralph Walter and all! And you meant no
harm by them--O