f the cliffs.

The rocks under his feet were wet and slippery. He fought his way over
them, feeling as if a hundred demons were in league to hold him back.
The swirl of the incoming tide sounded in his ears like a monstrous
chant of death. Again and again he slipped and fell, and yet again he
dragged himself up, grimly determined to fight the desperate battle to
the last gasp. The thought of Columbine had gone wholly from him, even
as the thought of his lost treasure. Only the elemental desire of life
gripped him, vital and urgent, forcing him to the greatest physical
effort he had ever made. He went like a goaded animal, savage, stubborn,
fiercely surmounting every obstacle, driven not so much by fear as by a
furious determination to frustrate the fate that menaced him.

It must have been nearly a minute later that the moon shone forth again,
throwing gleaming streaks of brightness upon the mighty breakers that
had swallowed the magic pool. They were riding in past the Spear Point
in majestic and unending procession, and the rocks that surrounded the
pool were already deeply covered. The surf of one great wave was rushing
over the beach to the Caves, and the spray of it blew over Knight,
drenching him from head to foot. Desperately, by that passing gleam of
moonlight, he searched for the opening of the path, the foam of the
oncoming procession already swirling about his feet. He spied it
suddenly at length, and in the same instant something within him--could
it have been his heart?--dropped abruptly like a loosened weight to the
very depths of his being. The way of escape in that direction was
already cut off. In the darkness he had not taken a straight course, and
it was too late.

Wildly he turned--like a hunted animal seeking refuge. With great leaps
and gigantic effort, he made for the open beach. He reached it, reached
the loose dry sand so soon to be covered by the roaring tumult of great
waters. His eyes glared out over the level stretch that intervened
between the Spear Point Rock and the harbour quay. The tide would not be
over it yet.

He flung his last defiance to the fate that relentlessly hunted him as
he took the only alternative, and set himself to traverse the way of the
quicksand--that dragged a man down quicker than hell.

CHAPTER VIII

THE BOON

Someone was mounting the steep cliff-path that led to Rufus's cottage--a
man, square-built and powerful, who carried a burden. The moon shone