Columbine rolled heavily on the broken swell and the lamp that swung from a beam threw a puzzling light about the cabin. Now and then water splashed on the deck and the slack sails flapped. The fresh breeze had dropped, although the sea had not yet gone down, and Marston had set the topsail and the balloon jib. The light canvas would chafe and was not of much use, but he must reach Kingston as soon as possible. He was exhausted by physical effort and anxious watching, and when Rupert replaced the bandage on his comrade's face he leaned back slackly on the locker seat.

Wyndham lay in an upper berth, in the faint draught that came down through the open skylight. A wet cloth covered his face and the cabin smelt of drugs. He did not move and had not been altogether conscious for some time. Rupert wore Harry's white clothes and looked, in the unsteady light, like a rather haggard and jaundiced Englishman. Marston had noted his firm touch when he fixed the bandage and now he was methodically putting back some bottles in the medicine chest. When he finished he bent over the berth for a moment, as if he listened to Wyndham's breathing.

"I think he will live," he said. "Although he is very weak, we have got the fever down, and the wound is not as septic as it was. Anyhow, you must get him into hospital at Kingston soon."

Marston remembered afterwards that Rupert had said you, not we, and thought it significant. Now, however, he was dully pondering something else.

"If you had not been on board, Harry would not have lived," he said.

"You're puzzled about my saving him?" Rupert rejoined. "Well, I don't owe Harry much and I owe you less. On the whole, I hardly think our relationship accounts for my efforts. A bold experiment is interesting when somebody else is the subject, and one rather enjoys using one's skill."

Since there were only one or two very simple surgical instruments in the medicine chest, Marston thought Rupert's skill was remarkable. He had envied him his firm hand and nerve when he cut out the bullet that had pierced Harry's cheek and jaw and lodged in his neck. As he remembered the operation, in which he had been forced to help, Marston shuddered. After a few moments Rupert looked up.

"You need fresh air. Go and see how she steers. Harry will sleep, but if it's necessary I will watch."

Marston went on deck. It was a little cooler and the touch of the dew on his face was soothing. He put on an oilskin and sat down by the wheel. The night was clear and the tops of the broken swell shone with phosphorescence. Columbine rolled about, shaking her masts and booms with savage jerks. Blocks rattled and now and then the canvas banged. Yet she forged ahead and kept her course.

By-and-by Marston lighted his pipe and tried to fix the elusive pictures of their journey to the coast. To begin with, the night they left the hut Wyndham owned he had a dose of fever. In the morning he was worse, but time was valuable and they pushed on. Then, at evening when they came down from the hills to cut the soldiers' line of march, they saw two or three peons run out from a ruined village and plunge into the bush. Another, who was slower and was caught, stated that they had been left behind to wait until some more troops came up. The village was empty, but the peon took the party to a hut he had been ordered to watch. It was getting dark and when they went in Marston struck a match. Next moment he let it drop, for a white man lay on the floor and something strange about his attitude indicated that he was dead. Then Rupert picked up the burning match and lighted a lantern.

Marston shuddered as his memory recaptured the scene the dim illumination touched. The dead man had drawn up his legs and his face was distorted, but Marston did not want to remember this. It was Peters' face, and he knew the fellow had not met a peaceful death. Father Sebastian knelt down by the body; Rupert stooped and smiled.

"You cannot help him and I do not think you will find a mark. I doubt if he belonged to any flock, but it was not to yours. Anyhow, he is dead, and you need not bother about how he died."

"Yet you know," said Father Sebastian, fixing him with steady eyes.

Rupert nodded. "He meant to sell me, and it is possible he got his reward, although he did not enjoy it long. One could philosophize about it, but I leave this to you. Well, I think we will not wait until his friends arrive.""I will wait," said Father Sebastian, firmly. "It is a duty to bury the dead."

Rupert shrugged and looked at Marston. Wyndham, shivering with ague, had sat down and rested his head in his hands, as if he did not know what was going on.

"Watching the padre did not run off has cost us some time," Rupert remarked. "However, it would be awkward if he sent the next detachment of cazadores after us. I expect he knows how I would meet the difficulty."

"We will leave you and not bother you for a promise," Marston said to Father Sebastian, who gave him his hand.

"There is much that puzzles me and I do not know why you help this bad man to escape, but I feel you are honest," he said. "Sometimes one must trust without understanding." He lifted his hand solemnly. "Vaya con Dios!"

Then they went out and left him in the dark with Peters.

Marston did not know if Father Sebastian sent the soldiers after them, but although he thought he did he bore him no grudge. The man was staunch, and from his point of view, was justified. In the morning, Rupert declared they must push on faster, and their march became a race for the coast. Now Marston could think about it coolly, he imagined Rupert feared some of the negroes had joined Larrinaga and were signalling news of the party's flight. Wyndham stumbled as they forced their way savagely in scorching heat across reedy swamps and through tangled bush, but he would not be carried and this would have delayed them dangerously. Marston recaptured with strange vividness the last scene.

It was dark when they broke out of the forest and saw the sea sparkle under a half-moon. The land-breeze blew fresh, and now and then belts of warm mist trailed across the beach. There were no mangroves, the beach was flat and open, but they were some distance off the spot where the schooner lay and they labored across the soft sand. Marston owned that the suspense had shaken his nerve. He was desperately anxious to get on board before he was stopped, but Wyndham could hardly walk. For half-an-hour Marston dragged him along.

When they were nearly level with the schooner, indistinct figures ran out from the bush. Wyndham turned, and shaking off Marston, drew his pistol. He fired two or three shots, but since the distance was long Marston thought he rather expected to warn the crew than stop their pursuers. The latter did not stop and Marston dragged Wyndham on again. A boat was coming, but he doubted if they could reach it before the others arrived. The sand was soft, he was exhausted, and Wyndham lurched about. Sometimes he nearly pulled Marston down.

Shots were fired behind them and bullets hummed overhead. The negroes were running hard close in front, and the boat plunged into the belt of surf. Then Wyndham fell and pulled Marston over. When he fell Marston got some sand in his eyes and could hardly see. Somebody seized his arm and dragged him to his feet; men were splashing in the foam about the boat. He stuck to Harry but did not know how they got on board. Then he felt the boat plunge and saw the half-naked Kroos were pulling for their lives. Wyndham leaned against him and Marston felt his jacket getting wet; he afterwards found that it was wet by blood. He put Harry down in the stern-sheets and seized the nearest Krooboy's oar, thrusting while the other pulled.

When they got on board the schooner the sails were going up and nobody else was hit. Marston and Rupert carried Wyndham to the cabin and Marston remembered his horror when they put him in his berth. A glancing bullet, turning over endways, had mangled the lower part of his face.

This, however, was some days since and Marston was getting over the shock. Rupert had told him Harry would live, although he would always wear the scar.

By-and-by Marston got up and walked about the deck. He dared not think about Flora yet; he must navigate Columbine to Kingston and get Wyndham into hospital. There was a little more wind now and the damp sails did not shake, but the rolling and lurching stopped the schooner. Although it was important to make Kingston soon, one could do nothing to help their progress and Marston presently returned to the wheel. He waited for a time, because he did not want to talk to Rupert. His shrinking from the fellow had not lessened, but he was very tired and limp, and at length he went down and got into his bunk.

In the morning the breeze was fresh and Columbine threw the spray about as she plunged across the white combers. At noon, Marston got his sextant to take the sun and sat for some minutes on the skylight calculating the schooner's position. Then he looked up and saw Rupert."I think the wind will hold," said the latter. "When do you expect to arrive?"

Marston told him and added: "You are not on the crew list and since Kingston's a British port we will have to comply with the usual formalities. We must think of a way of accounting for your being on board." He paused and added with a touch of embarrassment: "It may be some time before the doctors let me take Harry home and I don't know——"

"You don't know what to do about me?" Rupert suggested with the smile Marston disliked. "Well, suppose you wait until you get there. I imagine I won't bother you much. In the meantime, you haven't hauled your patent-log. Let's see what distance it marks."

Columbine's log was old-fashioned. In order to read the dial it was necessary to bring the torpedo-shaped instrument on board, and Rupert, jumping on a grating, put his foot on the low taffrail as he began to haul the line. The line was long, the log, with its spiral vanes, offered some resistance, and Marston, knowing it would be a minute or two before Rupert lifted it out of the water, studied the compass. Looking round, he saw the other's bent figure outlined against the foaming wake; and then he glanced ahead. The wind was fresh and Columbine sailed fast. White combers rolled up to windward and as she plunged across their tops she threw up clouds of spray.

In about a minute, Marston looked aft again and braced himself as he gazed at the slanted rail. He had heard no splash or cry, but Rupert had gone. He shouted, and signed to the Kroo steersman, who pulled round the wheel. Columbine shipped some water as, with sails flapping and banging, she came head to wind. The long booms jerked, blocks and ropes whipped to and fro, and the crew began to run about the deck. One or two hauled down the foresail, one or two trimmed the jibs aback, and Marston helped the others at the Burton tackle to hoist out the gig.

He jumped on board as she took the water. Four excited negroes leaped down from the schooner's bulwarks, and a white sea washed across the bows as they shoved her off. They got away without damage, and pulled obliquely to leeward while Marston tried to calculate how far Columbine had gone since he last saw Rupert. It was necessary to be accurate, because, except when the combers picked up the boat, he could see nothing but the white tops of the waves. Besides, rowing on an angry sea is hard and the men would soon get exhausted. Since they could not search long, he must reach the proper spot.

No floating object tossed among the foam, and after half an hour he gave it up. Rupert Wyndham had gone; he was old, and a good swimmer could not have lived long in such a sea, because a man, buffeted by breaking waves, may drown before he sinks. The boat had shipped much water, the crew were worn out, and had some trouble to row back to Columbine. When they had hoisted in the gig and put the schooner on her course, Marston went to the cabin and mixed a drink. He was wet, his hands shook, and his arms ached, for he had been forced to use his strength while he labored with the big sculling oar.

Moreover, he was strangely disturbed. He had shrunk from Rupert Wyndham with half-instinctive repulsion. In one sense, Rupert's drowning would relieve him and Wyndham from an awkward responsibility. Marston admitted that he had recognized this, although he hoped he had not allowed it to influence him. Indeed, because he did not like Rupert, he had made sterner efforts to reach the spot where he had gone overboard; but he wondered whether he had perhaps afterwards neglected means he might have used had the man been his friend. On the whole, he did not think so, and his tormenting doubts began to vanish. For all that, he was glad Wyndham was asleep.

When, some hours later, Marston went back to the cabin Wyndham's eyes were open. The lower part of his face was covered by the bandage and he could not talk, but Marston thought he missed Rupert and was curious. Although Harry was very weak, Marston felt he had better tell him now. If he did not, his unsatisfied curiosity might keep him restless and bring the fever back.

"I know what you want to ask," he said quietly. "Rupert's not here. He fell overboard when he was hauling up the log."

Wyndham's eyelids flickered and his hand moved under the blanket, but this was the only sign he gave.

"She was rolling," Marston went on. "He stood with his foot on the taffrail, leaning out to gather in the line. You see, there was nothing to save him if he lost his balance——"

He stopped, for he saw Wyndham was looking at him very hard. Then he resumed: "I think he did lose his balance, but I don't know. I was looking forward, wondering whether we ought to haul down a reef, and none of the boys saw him fall. There was not a splash."

A feeble movement of Wyndham's head urged him to go on."We got the gig over soon, but the boat had been going fast and head-reached some distance when we brought her round. Then there was a confused sea."

Marston saw Wyndham understood; he need not labor his explanation, but he wished Harry could talk. There was an assurance he wanted his comrade to give; Harry knew how he had felt about Rupert.

"I think I did my best," he said awkwardly. "She nearly capsized once or twice; the sea was hollow and curled before you expected. The water on board was getting deep, and we couldn't bale."

A very faint smile flickered in Wyndham's eyes and Marston was conscious of keen relief. Harry had understood his embarrassment and was satisfied. To hint at regret would be useless cant; there was nothing more to be said. For all that, Marston was glad when a Krooboy called him on deck. It was blowing fresher and he gave some orders and occupied himself by shortening sail.