"What is to be the end?" asked Claire, suddenly, wearily. "What is to be the end?"

Aylmer looked up from his pallet on the floor—looked at the girl—looked at the walls of bare masonry—looked at the shaft of sunlight which slanted through the barred window. For eight and forty hours he had lain there, shamming, shamming, shamming. For three days previous to his being brought to that place, he had lain as motionless in the lazaret of the Santa Margarita.

Conceive it—you who walk abroad as you list! Nearly a week of inaction, when all the time your blood is coursing healthily in your veins, your feet itch for the road, and your wrath, above all, is suffering a continual fever for which no remedy is presently available.

The picture, however, had its other side. Could he, in any other circumstances, have advanced so far in intimacy with his companion? When, in the ordinary intercourse of uneventful life, would the barrier which she had raised against him have been flung down? Where else than in this island prison of Salicudi would he have seen the glorious vision of hope over that barrier's crumbling walls? Dwelling on these matters, he was able to answer her pessimism with a genuine smile.

"When I first met you I told myself that I should have to play a waiting game," he said. "Well, it is proving itself so, literally."

She flushed faintly.

"You must forgive me," she sighed. "We women are not taught to wait. And in America we are allowed to be petulant, you know." She smiled. "You Britishers have more sense of discipline. But an end? Surely you yourself must want to see one? How long are you to lie there, paralyzed for action?"

He was silent for a moment, and his eyes were shadowed.

"It is I who must ask forgiveness," he said at last. "Perhaps—I hardly realized what it is—for you."

A throb of compunction stung her. She gave a little cry of protest.

"For me? It is a thousand times worse for you. I have liberty, in a sense. They let me walk abroad, even, at times—I am not interfered with—I can look out to sea and—and hope. I have you to lean on. But you? You lie within these four walls and think, and think. Your only support is within yourself. And I am a drag upon you."

And then she turned her face from the sudden passion in his eyes.

"Claire!" he said. "Claire!"

She did not answer in words. She made a little gesture which seemed to plead for forbearance, for a postponement to an inevitable but far distant morrow. She rose and walked to the window.

"There is a ship passing now," she reported. "Half a mile from land. I can see her flag—the Union Jack. A Newcastle collier, I expect, by her bulk and her grime. I suppose there are a score of unwashed deck hands and heavers in her forecastle who would sweep this island bare of the human vermin who infest it if we could let them know our need, if we could signal—wave—act! Act? But to go on waiting? To have not so much as a plan?"

He rose cautiously.

"There is no one in sight?" he asked.

She looked right and left, keenly suspicious.

"No," she said, at last. "I watched Luigi back to the houses after he left our food. He and half a dozen more are at the landing place. Two or three are on board the felucca, working her with sweeps into the shelter of the little breakwater. Mr. Miller? He is sitting on a boulder, watching—and like us, I suppose—waiting. What are we all doing but that? Fate is to be the arbiter for all of us. We can offer no interference."

He came up beside her, keeping in the shadow and peering cautiously between the bars. His glance was directed at the Santa Margarita as the toilers at the sweeps slowly worked her to her moorings.

"They are making it the more difficult for us," he said slowly. "While she lay out there in the open, she represented the weapon with which we might have defeated Fate, if Fate is against us. Inside the breakwater the edge of the weapon is blunt. Did Fate read my thoughts?"

She looked at him anxiously.

"You have had a plan?" she asked. "You have not been leaving all to chance?"

"Wind—that is all I asked," he said. "A storm, a moonless night, and a little luck. If I could have got on board the felucca with you and cut her from her moorings, we would have played a deal with Fate then. We would have enlisted her on our side, to take us where she willed."

Her eyes grew vivid with hope and with anxiety.

"But to get on board? We are locked in at night, bolted. And those dogs of theirs are loose."

"That is it—they are loose," he said. "A few handfuls of food saved and we can attract them to the window, and they will be quiet enough when they are fed. It is merely a question of the getting out."

"And how?"

He pointed to a corner of the unmorticed wall.

"Their bars are sound enough, their bolts are out of reach of our tampering. But the building itself? Its foundations date from the days of Augustus, as likely as not. At night, while you slept, I tried its stability, course by course. It was in that corner that I found the weak spot. The lower stone I can remove at will. The one above it will fall when the support of the first is removed. And I put pressure enough on to the outer stones to know that a strong effort will thrust them away. The road is open, when we choose to take it."

She clapped her hands softly. Her face glowed.

"Why not now?" she cried. "Why not choose the passing of a ship and then signal—as you signalled to the torpedo boat?"

He shook his head.

"A warship is one thing," he objected, "a merchant ship another. We should be poising our all on the intelligence of a look-out-man who would be scanning the water, not the land, or of a third officer who might not know the code international."

She sighed.

"So we wait," she said despondently.

"So we wait," he agreed. "But not for long." He was looking westward at the sky.

"You see something?" she said quickly. "What?"

"Wind clouds," he answered. "Cirrus. Fate may be making her preparations for to-night."

"To-night?" She repeated the word faintly, incredulously. "I wonder," she said slowly. "I wonder if, after all my yearning for action, I shall—be brave when it really comes to—to-night?"

He looked down at her.

"And I?" he said. "Have I as good a chance as you to show courage?"

"You?" she answered wonderingly. "You are a man."

"Yes," he answered. "I am a man. And you, a woman, are dependent on me and I am taking you into perils that I can only guess at, dangers that lie absolutely in the hands of chance. For which of us is it easiest to be brave, you or me?"

Her eyes dropped from his.

"What do you hint?" she temporized. "For me—why should it be easier for me? The—the cases are equal, are they not?"

"No," he said quietly. "No, Claire. And you know that they are not. Not because you are a woman, but because you are the woman; because you are you—and I—am myself—and love you!"

And this time there was a note in his voice which she had not recognized before, vibrant, unrestrained, passionate. The thrill of it pulsed through her; she felt it in her nerves, her very veins. She flinched from it, she gave a tiny pant; the womanly instinct of evasion made her draw back from him a startled pace.

"Isn't that the truth?" he asked, his voice hoarse with its intensity. "Isn't it easy to be brave for oneself alone—easier than to be brave for another?"

She stood looking at him, strangely, doubtfully, the shadow of dumb entreaty in her eyes. But in her heart other shadows were fading to disclose realities hitherto faintly suspected and half defined. Was this the true meaning of the fear which had suddenly been born in the moment of hope? Was it for his sake she paused upon the threshold of danger? The protective instinct which she had recognized in herself with wonder—had that grown into something more? Was it death with him or life without him that she pictured as the worst that Fate could give?

The silence grew in tension but she could not break it. What was only then revealing itself to her—could she reveal it to him? She drew back another pace, she held out her hand as if she warded off the inevitable.

"I cannot tell," she said weakly. "But—but I think I could be brave for myself—alone."

He made an exclamation, his arms went out to possess her, his eyes shone—

"No!" she cried passionately. "No! Is it fair, is it right to take advantage of our position; is it honorable?"

And then she regretted her words in the very speaking of them. The passion faded from his face, a shadow veiled his eyes, he made a gesture of contrition. And she? With feminine inconsistency she opened her lips to undo what she had done, to make her victory defeat.

Again Fate intervened. Aylmer whispered warningly, slipped across the flags, and stretched himself upon the pallet. One look through the barred window explained his action. A hundred yards away a couple of figures were advancing towards the building. She recognized Landon and in his companion, Miller, talking vehemently.

She left the window and waited, sitting on the rough stool which was placed at the pallet foot.

A minute later the sound of bolts withdrawn and a key in a lock echoed under the stone arch. Landon entered alone, debonair, smiling, but with eyes which were ominous of intention.

He looked down at the pallet.

"Our sufferer—our patient? Do we perceive no signs of progress?"

There was danger in his voice; she read it unmistakably.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"He is no different," she said apathetically. "He has spoken, once or twice. I see no change."

"That is the misfortune of it all," said Landon. "You see no change. Can your nursing be at fault—not from want of care, let me say at once, but from want of knowledge? Must we call in further advice in consultation?"

His face was white and haggard below the soiled bandage which crossed his forehead. The sharpness of his jaw, his sunken cheeks, made of his smile a very evil thing. She flinched before it.

"I cannot tell," she answered wearily.

"His movements, now?" grinned Landon. "Do they give no indication of his condition? Has he no conscious interests?"

The eyes below the bandage glittered and fear stabbed her suddenly. Were they betrayed?

She shook her head.

"You see for yourself," she answered, and made a gesture towards the motionless form on the pallet.

Landon laughed.

"No, I do not see," he said. "I am not a physician. I cannot walk to a bedside and deliver sentences of death or reprieves to life like the miracle mongers of Harley Street. Unconsciousness? How is it diagnosed? Sometimes by actual experiment in corpore vile, is it not?" He leaned over the bed. His hand slipped into a pocket and reappeared holding an open penknife. He thrust it suddenly into Aylmer's arm.

She gave a cry of indignation; she seized his hand and dragged him back.

He laughed savagely and tried to fling her off. She threw her whole weight upon his wrist, clinging to it.

And then he laughed again, with malignant enjoyment. He changed his tactics. He no longer evaded her grip. He jerked her towards him. And this time the penknife point found a new sheath. Deliberately he stabbed it against her shoulder and—held it there!

She shrieked.

There was a stirring from the pallet bed. With a mighty leap Aylmer was on his feet! His face was convulsed; his eyes were lightnings.

For the third time Landon laughed, triumphantly. In the same motion he released his prisoner and sent her spinning against Aylmer's outstretched arm. He himself was at the door and outside it, slamming it, locking it, flinging home bolt after bolt before the two inside had recovered from the sudden shock. A moment later he reappeared at the window.

"Well, my early convalescent!" he mocked. "Have you no thanks for such a sudden recovery? And you, sister-in-law, for such a lesson in the healing art? Think of the efforts wasted on that malingerer. Aren't you blushing for the ease with which you were deceived?"

And then the twinkle of wicked laughter faded from his eyes. He drew near the window bars and glowered down at them evilly.

"Or are you blushing for yourself, you wanton!" he cried. "You who deceived me into leaving you with him as a nurse, and knew that he needed none. A little paragraph with hints—or more than hints, the truth—about such a matter, and where do you stand? Are there society rags in London and New York ready to accept that sort of matter? Yes, virtuous cousin and sister-in-law, I think there are, I think there are!"

Neither of them flinched. They looked at him fixedly and, in the girl's case, almost wonderingly. And Landon read the message of her incredulity with a chuckle of enjoyment.

"I keep on presenting surprises to you, do I not?" he grinned. "My versatility, the quickness with which I seize new points of humor impresses you?"

For a moment she was silent. And then, as if a force beyond her control forced her to speak, she answered him.

"I did not believe in the possibility of there being a thing as vile as yourself," she said. "I did not think God allowed such as you to live!"

The satyr-like grin broadened across his haggard cheeks. He leered down at them.

"I revel in it!" he answered. "By the Lord! Till you've tried absolutely unrestrained wickedness, till you've thrown off every sort of control, till you're one with the devil and proud of it, you don't know what enjoyment is!" His eyes glowed; he smote his fist ecstatically on the stones. "It's great!" he cried. "Great!"

A gray figure came suddenly into view behind him. Miller's face showed white against the shadow of the dusk which was heralding its coming by the deepening azure of the sea and sky. And his glance seemed to hold a significance which the prisoners were meant to read, but for which they had no clue.

Landon heard him and wheeled.

He surveyed him slowly and then he laughed.

"I'm beyond you now, teacher!" he derided. "I used to admire you—the callousness, the relentlessness—which you could put into a job! But I'm way up above you. Decency had to be part of your stock-in-trade."

He laughed again, his harsh, cackling merriment, and there was a note in it which struck a new chord of fear in Claire's heart. It was inhuman, unintelligent, this laughter. It fell poignantly, horribly on the ear.

"To-morrow—maÑana!" chuckled Landon. "I'm coming back with all my friends. We'll give hours of daylight to the job and, by God! we'll make a good one! Think it over; give it your attention through the night! My terms, every word of them or—well, try and guess the persuasions I'll use. Meditate on them; paint them up in your imaginations and then you'll fall short! And as for restraints, remember that in my particular case there isn't such a thing, not one!"

He stood staring down at them through a moment of leering self-satisfaction, and then slowly, reluctantly, turned away. He took Miller's arm and drew him insistently down the path. His evil laughter came back to them shrill upon the evening breeze.

Inside their prison the two turned and confronted each other. Then Aylmer spoke.

"He has defied God, and the judgment of God has fallen on him. He is insane—that is evident! Insane with malice, with his surrender to the devil and all his works."

Her lips were parched. She whispered.

"And to-morrow?" she questioned, thickly. "To-morrow—we shall have to surrender, too. To him?"

He clenched his fists.

"No!" he said. "No! Not while Fate has given us to-night—to-night!"