The Comtesse underrated her powers of endurance. For two more whole days she encouraged Captain Twinely to make love to her. She sat with him in the sandhills, she walked with him along the strand, she flattered him, ogled him, enticed him, till the man was beside himself with the desire of her. But in private it was not safe to speak to her about the captain. Her temper, when the hours of her love-making were over for the day, was extremely bad. Even Hannah, who was a match for most women in the use of her tongue, shrank from the sharp gibes of the Comtesse. Una tried in vain to soothe the ruffled lady, and had to bear much from her, but Una could have borne anything patiently. The east wind blew gently day and night, bringing—surely bringing—the white sails of the brig. The sea remained calm and she was able to go twice more to the cave. She saw the yeomen spread over the country, searching everywhere, through fields and hills and along the river banks, by the shore, among the rocks, over the Causeway cliffs, through the sandhills, the ruins of Dunluce, among the white cliffs of Port-rush Strand, at high tide and low tide, everywhere except the one place—the nook where Una bathed. Estelle de Tourneville secured that spot from the searchers’ gaze. No man dared go there. Una could forgive the worst of tempers to the woman who purchased such security. And the Comtesse was excusable. Doubtless, she paid a heavy price for a delicately-nurtured and fastidious lady. No one ever knew what she endured. Neither to Una nor any one else did she tell at the time or afterwards the details of the captain’s courtship.

At last, one evening after dusk, Maurice rode in from Ballycastle. He brought glorious news. Captain Getty was on his way. He might be expected off the coast the next day. Maurice had left the brig at the quay at Greenock ready to sail. Next morning he was up early. He took bread and meat and went alone to Pleaskin Head, carrying his father’s long telescope with him. All morning he lay on the edge of the cliff peering eastward across the sea. He was strangely nervous now that the critical moment had arrived. He understood that the coast was being carefully watched, that the sight of a ship lying-to a mile or two from the shore, would certainly excite suspicion; that it might be very difficult for him to take his boat round to the cave where Neal lay hidden without being followed. It was absolutely necessary for him to catch sight of the brig before any one else did, to get off from the shore before the brig lay to, to be well on his way to her before any other boat put out to chase him. He knew that his own movements were watched. He was followed from the house to Pleaskin Head by two yeomen. As he lay on the cliffs he saw them a few hundred yards inland keeping guard on him.

At ten o’clock he caught sight of the topsails of a ship far east, beyond the blue outline of the Rathlin hills. The wind, very feeble at dawn, was freshening slightly. The lower sails of the vessel rose slowly into view. Maurice guessed her to be a brig—to be the brig he looked for. He lay still, watching her intently, till he was sure. Then he went home. He found Una and the Comtesse in the breakfast room. Captain Twinely, on the lawn outside, leaned on the window sill and talked to them. Maurice, uncontrollably excited, whispered to Una—

“Now.”

She rose, and followed him from the room. Captain Twinely eyed them sharply. He had ceased to distrust the Comtesse, but he was keenly suspicious of Maurice. Since he had been robbed of his clothes in Antrim he hated Maurice nearly as bitterly as he did Neal, and was determined to have him strictly watched.

“Pardon me, dear lady,” he said, “I must give some orders to the patrol.”

“Don’t be long, then,” she said, “I want you to-day, Captain Twinely. Come back to me.”

Their eyes met, and the Comtesse felt certain that her victim would return to her. She leaped from her chair the moment he left her and ran from the room.

“Una,” she cried. “Una, Maurice, where are you?”

She found them; they were packing clothes in a hand-bag—clothes, she supposed, for Neal.

“He’s gone to give orders to his men about you, Maurice. I know he has. I haven’t a moment to explain. Leave everything to me. I’ll manage him, only trust me and do what I say. Una, are you a born idiot? Take those things out of the bag. How can you go about with that travelling-bag in your hand and not excite suspicion? If you must have clothes wrap them in a bathing-sheet. Oh, what a fool you are!”

She left them no time to answer her, but fled back to the breakfast-room. A moment later Captain Twinely found her, lounging—a figure of luxurious laziness—among the cushions of Lord Dunseveric’s easy chair.

“We are going on the sea to-day,” she said, “my nephew, Maurice, has promised to take us in a boat to the Skerries. I have never been there, but I hear they are delightful. I hope you will come with us. Please say yes. I should feel so much safer in a boat if you were there. My nephew is very rash. He frightens me. I do not trust him. I shall not feel secure or easy in my mind unless you come, too. Besides”—her voice sank to a delicious whisper—“I shall not really enjoy myself unless you are there.”

She stretched her hand out and laid it with the tenderest motion of caress on his hand. Captain Twinely could not hesitate, he promised to go with her. In the back of his mind was a feeling that if he were of the party Maurice St. Clair could not attempt to communicate with the fugitive.

“Maurice,” said the Comtesse, “Maurice, are you ready? Captain Twinely is coming with us to the Skerries for a pic-nic. Won’t that be nice? Come along quickly, we are starting.”

She took the captain with her, and walked down to the cove where the boat lay. Una and Maurice, with their bundles of clothes, followed.

“Una,” said Maurice, “what does she mean? I can’t take this man in the boat, and I won’t. What does she mean by inviting him?”

“I don’t know, but we must trust her. We can trust her. She’s been wonderful all these last three days. Only for her I could never have got food to Neal.”

“Well,” said Maurice, “I suppose if the worst comes to the worst it will only be a matter of knocking him on the head with an oar. I don’t want to do that if I can help it. My lord will be angry if he has to get me out of a fresh scrape. It will be a serious matter to assault this captain in cold blood. I’ll do it, of course, if necessary, but I would rather not.”

The boat was dragged down the beach. The Comtesse looked at it, and protested.

“Maurice, surely you are not going in that little boat. It’s far too small. It’s not safe.”

“Oh, it’s safe enough,” said Maurice, “and anyway there’s no other.”

“There is,” said the Comtesse. “There, look at that nice broad, flat boat. I’ll go in that.”

“The cobble for lifting the salmon net!” said Maurice, with a laugh. “My dear aunt, you couldn’t go to sea in that. She can’t sail, and it takes four men to pull her as fast as a snail would crawl. Who ever heard of going off to the Skerries in a salmon cobble?”

“Well,” said the Comtesse, angrily, “I won’t go in the other. I know that one is too small. Isn’t she too small, Captain Twinely? Look at the size of the sea. Look how far off the island is! No, I won’t go. If you persist in being disobliging, Maurice, you and Una can go by yourselves. Captain Twinely and I will stay on shore.”

The boat was already in the water and Una sat in the stern. Maurice, ankle deep in water, held her bow. Maurice laughed aloud. He began to understand his aunt’s plan.

“Come, Captain Twinely, we will go for a walk along the cliffs.”

Her hand was on his arm. She held him. He looked at the boat. A swift doubt shot through his mind. Something in the way Maurice laughed aroused his suspicion. He took a step forward. The Comtesse clung tightly to his arm. Maurice gave a vigorous shove and leapt forward over the bow. The boat shot out and floated clear of the land.

“Isn’t he a disagreeable boy?” said the Comtesse. “You wouldn’t have refused to do what I asked you, would you, Captain Twinely?”

Her eyes sought his, but he was watching the boat uneasily. Maurice had the oars out, and was pulling round the Black Rock.

“He’s not going to the Skerries,” he said, “he’s going in the other direction.”

“What does it matter where he goes? Besides, you know what stupid things boats are. They always turn away from the place they want to go to. It’s what they call tacking. Maurice must be tacking now. Let him manage his horrid boat himself. We needn’t trouble ourselves about him. We will go for a walk on the tops of the cliffs.”

“I thought you did not like walking on the cliffs, you never would walk there with me before.”

“Please don’t be cross with me. May I not change my mind?”

She stroked his hand and looked up into his face with eyes which actually had tears in them. “I shall be so miserable if you are cross. I shall feel that I have spoiled your day. I wish now that I had gone in the little boat. I wish I had been upset and drowned. Then perhaps you would have been sorry for me.”

She was crying in earnest now. Captain Twinely yielded, yielded to her tears, to the fascination of her presence, to the passion of his love for her. Very tenderly and gently he led her up the steep path to the top of the cliffs. Holding her hands in his he walked silently beside her. He was a bad man, revengeful, cruel, cowardly, but he really loved the woman beside him. His was no heroic, spiritual love, but it was the best, the strongest, of which his nature was capable. He could never for her sake have lived purely and nobly, or learned self-denial, but, cowardly as he was, he would have died for her.

Suddenly she stood still, snatched her hand from his grasp, and stepped away from him.

“Now,” she cried, “at last! at last! There, Captain Twinely, there is the boat with the sail spread, shooting out to sea. Look at her; look carefully; look well. How many people are there in her? Can you see? I can see very well. There are three, and who is the third?”

The tears were gone out of her eyes now. They blazed with triumph and satisfaction. She laughed aloud, exultingly, bitterly.

“Who is the third? Can you see? He is Neal Ward, the man you’ve chased, the man you’ve been seeking day and night. There”—she pointed further eastwards—“there is the American brig which will bear him away from you. Do you understand?”

Captain Twinely followed her gaze and her pointing finger. He began to understand.

“And I did it. I fooled you. I blinded your eyes while my niece fed him in his hiding-place. I encouraged you to seek everywhere, and kept you back from the place where he was. I—I made pretence of tolerating your hateful presence. I made you think that I cared for you, loved you, you, you—I would rather love a toad.”

“You have deceived me, then, all the time, played with me.”

“Yes,” she laughed wildly, “deceived you, played with you, fooled you, cheated you, and hated you—yes, hated, hated the very sight of you, the abominable sound of your voice, the sickening touch of your hand.”

“And I loved you,” he said, simply. “I loved you so well that I think I would have done anything for you. There was no need for you to fool me. I would have let the man go if you had asked me. I would have let him go, though I hate him, and I could not have asked leave even to kiss your hand for my reward. I would have been content just to have pleased you. Why did you cheat me?”

The Comtesse had no pity for him. The memory of the words he had spoken to her, of his foolish face, of his amorous ways, of the touchings of his hands which she had endured, thronged on her. Her lips curled back over her teeth. Her eyes were hard like shining steel.

“I hate you,” she hissed at him. “I have always hated you since the night when you seized me and dragged me into the meeting-house. I would have revenged myself for that even if there had been no prisoner to save from you.”

“I did not do that,” said Captain Twinely, “and I did not know who you were at the time. Be just to me even if you hate me. God knows that I would have died to save you from the smallest hurt.”

He fell on the ground before her.

“Oh,” he cried, “have some pity for me. I love you with all my soul. Let me serve you, let me wait on you. Let me see you sometimes and hear your voice. Have you no pity for me? I do not ask for love, or friendship, or the meanest gift. Only do not hate me. I have led an evil life, I know it, but for your sake, for your sake, if you will pity me, I will do anything. I will be anything you bid me. But do not hate me. For the love of God, by the mercy of Christ the Saviour, do not cast me utterly away from you. Do not hate me.”

He crawled forward, and clutched the bottom of her skirt with his hand. With a swift movement she snatched it from his grasp.

“I do hate you,” she cried, “and I shall always hate you. From this out I shall always hope and pray and strive to get to heaven when I die, not for the love of the saints or because I think that I shall be happy there, but just because I shall be safe from the sight of you, for you will surely be in hell.”

She turned and walked down the path they had ascended together. She left him grovelling on the ground, his face slobbered with tears and grimy with the clay his hands rubbed over it.