Part 48 (2/2)

”No!” she cried. ”No!”

Very gently, very firmly, her hand was drawn aside. He bent over her; something touched faintly--very faintly--her lips. The next instant she was alone. He had leaped--far out into the grip of the tide.

She caught her breath and clutched the rope; she flung herself down and wedged her limbs behind a boulder. Fate was relentless, she told herself, was cruel beyond even her darkest antic.i.p.ations. For now her one support was to be denied her; she was to be left alone. She set her lips grimly. No, she would never see Aylmer again, but she would defy Fate! She was to be crushed, but she would go down fighting; she would be worthy of herself--and of him.

The vagrant shaft of moonlight was gone again; the darkness was well-nigh impenetrable. The rope swung between her fingers unstraining.

The minutes pa.s.sed one by one; the tension of expectancy plucked at her nerves; she s.h.i.+vered, but not with cold. Even if it was the worst that was to come upon her she wanted to know--to know.

The rope grew taut.

It was as if an electric shock thrilled her. She braced herself against the stone, and her muscles tightened; slowly, using her strength to its utmost but with steady effort, she began to haul it in foot by foot. It came heavily but unceasingly, the coils unwinding fathom after fathom at her side.

And then the strain ceased as suddenly as it had begun. A voice hailed her out of the darkness, almost at her feet. A dark bulk rose at the breakwater's edge.

Aylmer staggered towards her and laid something on the stones--something which stirred uneasily but unavailingly, clogged, as it seemed, by the weight of its sodden clothing.

She knelt beside it. She brushed the lank hair from a dripping face.

Aylmer waved her back.

”There is another!” he shouted. ”Hold on if you can! Hold on!” and so plunged back into the surf. For the second time she braced herself to endure the strain--to wait--to agonize with expectation. And again Fate played with her, racked her between hope and fear, drew out the strain and then, as suddenly, relaxed it. Aylmer crept out upon the stones, gasping, doggedly clinging to a new burden.

This time it was the bearer who staggered and fell, the burden who rose unsteadily, and peered into his rescuer's face.

She dropped upon her knees beside him. Pale, clean-cut ascetic features were lifted to hers. Two dark brown eyes inspected her with startled incredulity.

And then the man rose and--the act was instinctive, it was obvious--doffed his hat.

”Signora,” he said in Italian. ”Signora! This is Salicudi, is it not? I am at a loss--I do not understand.”

For a moment she hesitated, looking at him. The long black garment which clung about him reached to his feet. Suddenly she recognized it, and, with recognition, a little cry escaped her. It was a _soutane_. And this was no sailor. She was confronted by a priest.

As she opened her lips to find a reply, something clattered behind her; something rushed, calling upon the names of innumerable saints, out of the darkness, and seized her shoulder. A harsh voice rang into the echoes of the night.

”To me--to me, all of you! They are escaping! Blood of My Lady, the prisoners are loose!”

The man in the soutane whirled fiercely upon the newcomer. And as he turned the moon broke through the scurry of the drift and fell upon the group in cold brilliance.

”Prisoners!” The voice was incredulous, wrathful, and above all full of command. ”Prisoners! You speak of--whom?”

The hand upon Claire's shoulder dropped. Her captor fell away as if struck by a physical blow.

”Padre Sigi!” he stammered, and his voice was convincing of his amazement. ”Padre Sigi!”

The other nodded imperiously.

”Padre Sigismondi,” he agreed. ”At your service, my good Luigi. At your service!”

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