"As far as I can calculate," said Percival, "this is the end of March. Confound it! I wish I had some tobacco."

"Don't begin to wish," remarked Brian, lazily, "or you will never end."

"I haven't your philosophy. I am wishing all day long—and for nothing so much as the sight of a sail on yonder horizon."

In justice to Percival, it must be observed that he never spoke in this way except when alone with Brian, and very seldom even then. There had been a marked change in their relations to each other since the night when Heron had made what he called "his confession." They had never again mentioned the subject then discussed, but there had been a steady growth of friendship and confidence between them. If it was ever interrupted, it was only when Percival had now and then a moody fit, during which he would keep a sort of sullen silence. Brian respected these moods, and thought that he understood them. But he found in the end that he had been as much mistaken about their origin as Percival had once been mistaken in attributing motives of a mercenary kind to him. And when the cloud passed, Percival would be friendlier and more genial than ever.

"Of course," said Heron, presently, "if a vessel saw our signal—and hove to, we should have to send out one of our ingeniously constructed small boats and state our case. Jackson and I would be the best men for the purpose, I suppose. Then they would send for the rest of you. A good opportunity for leaving you behind, Brian, eh?"

"A hermit's life would not suit me badly," said Brian, who was lying on his back on a patch of sand in the shade, with a hat of cocoa-nut fibre tilted over his eyes. "I think I could easily let you go back without me."

"I shall not do that, you know."

"It is foolish, perhaps, to let our minds dwell on the future," said Brian, after a moment's pause; "but the more I think of it the more I wonder that your mind is so set upon dragging me back to England. You know that I don't want to go. You know that that business could be settled just as well without me as with me; better, in fact. I shall have to stultify myself; to repudiate my own actions; to write myself down an ass."

"Good for you," said Percival, with an ironical smile.

"Possibly; but I don't see what you gain by it."

"Love of dominion, my dear fellow. I want to drag you as a captive at my chariot-wheels, of course. We will have a military band at the Dunmuir Station, and it shall play 'See the conquering hero comes.'"

"Very well. I don't mind assisting at your triumph."

"Hum! My triumph? Wait till that day arrives, and we shall see. What's that fellow making frantic signs about from that biggest palm-tree? It looks as if——Good Heavens, Brian, it's a sail!"

He dashed the net that he had been making to the ground, and rushed off at the top of his speed to the place where a pile of wood and seaweed had been heaped to make a bonfire. Brian followed with almost equal swiftness. The others had already collected at the spot, and in a few minutes a thin, wavering line of smoke rose up into the air, and flashes of fire began to creep amongst the carefully-dried fuel.

For a time they all watched the sail in silence. Others had been seen before; others had faded away into the blue distance, and left their hearts sick and sore. Would this one vanish like the others? Was their column of smoke, now rising thick and black towards the cloudless sky, big enough to be seen by the man on the look-out? And, if it was seen—what then? Why, even then, they might choose to avoid that perilous reef, and pass it by.

"It's coming nearer," said Jackson, at last, in a loud whisper.

Brian looked at Percival, then turned away and fixed his eyes once more upon the distant sail. There was something in Percival's face which he hardly cared to see. The veins on his forehead were swollen, his lips were nearly bitten through, his eyes were strained with that passionate longing for deliverance to which he seldom gave vent in words. If this vessel brought no succour, Brian trembled to think of the force of the reaction from that intense desire. For himself, Brian had little care: he was astonished to find how slightly the suspense of waiting told upon him, except for others' sake. He had no prospects: no future. But Percival had everything in the world that heart could wish for: home, happiness, success. It was natural that his impatience should have something in it that was fierce and bitter. If this ship failed them, the disappointment would almost break his heart.

"They've seen us," Jackson repeated, hoarsely. "They're making for the island. Thank God!"

"Don't be too sure," said Percival, in a harsh voice. Then, in a few minutes, he added:—"The boats had better be seen to. I think you are right."

Fenwick and the boy went off immediately to the place where the two little boats were moored—boats which they had all laboured to manufacture out of driftwood and rusty iron nails. Jackson remained to throw fuel on the fire, and Percival, suddenly laying a hand on Brian's arm, led him apart and turned his back upon the glittering expanse of sea.

"I'm as bad as a woman," he said, tightening his grasp till it seemed like one of steel on Brian's arm. "It turns me sick to look. Do you think it is coming or not!"

"Of course it is coming. Don't break down at the last moment, Heron."

"I'm not such a fool," said Percival, gruffly. "But—good God! think of the months we have gone through. I say," with a sudden and complete change of tone, "you're not going to back out of our arrangements, are you? You're coming to England with me?"

"If you wish it."

"I do wish it."

"Very well. I will come."

They clasped hands for a moment in silence and then separated. Brian went to the hut to collect the scanty belongings of the party: Percival made his way down to the boats.

There was no mistake about the vessel now. She was making steadily for the Rocas Reef. About a mile-and-a-half from it she hove to; and a boat was lowered. By this time Heron and Jackson had rowed to the one gap in the barrier reef that surrounded the island; they met the ship's boat half-way between the reef and the ship itself. A young, fair, pleasant-looking man in the ship's boat attracted Percival's attention at once: he seemed to be in some position of authority, although it was evident that he was not one of the ship's officers. As soon as they were within speaking distance of each other, questions and answers were exchanged. Percival was struck by the brightness of the young man's face as he gave the information required. After a little parley, the boat went its way to the schooner; the officer in charge declaring with an odd smile that the castaways had better make known their condition to the captain, before returning for the others on the island. Percival was in no mood to demur: he and Jackson stepped into the ship's boat, and their own tiny craft was towed behind it as a curiosity in boatbuilding.

There was a good deal of crowding at the ship's sides to look at the new-comers: and, as Percival sprang on board, with a sense of almost overpowering relief and joy at the sight of his country-men, a broad, red-faced man with a black beard, came up, and, as soon as he learnt his name, shook him heartily by the hand.

"So you're Mr. Heron," he said, giving him an oddly interested and approving look. "Well, sir, we've come a good way for you, and I hope you're glad to see us. You'll find some acquaintances of yours below."

"Acquaintances?" said Heron, staring.

"There's one, at any rate," said the captain, pushing forward a seaman who was standing at his elbow, with a broad grin upon his face. "Remember Mason of the Arizona, Mr. Heron? Ah, well! if you go into the cabin, you'll find someone you remember better." And then the captain laughed, and Heron saw a smile on the faces round him, which confused him a little, and made him fancy that something was going wrong. But he had not much time for reflection. He was half-led, half-pushed, down the companion ladder, but in such a good-humoured, friendly way that he did not know how to resist; and then the fair-haired young man opened a door and said, "He's here, sir!" in a tone of triumph, which was certainly not ill bestowed. And then there arose some sort of confusion, and Percival heard familiar voices, and felt that his hand was half-shaken off, and that somebody had kissed his cheek.

But for the moment he saw no one but Elizabeth.

They had known for some little time that their quest had been successful, that Percival was safe. They had seen him as he rowed from the island, as he entered the other boat, as he set his foot upon the schooner; and then they had withdrawn into the cabin, so that they might not meet him under the inquisitive, if friendly, eyes of the captain and his crew. Perhaps they had hardly made enough allowance for the shock of surprise and joy which their appearance was certain to cause Percival. His illness and long residence on the island had weakened his physical force. In almost the first time in his life he felt a sensation of faintness, which made him turn pale and stagger, as he recognised the faces of the two persons whom he loved better than any other in the world—his friend and his betrothed. A thought of Brian, too, embittered this his first meeting with Elizabeth. Only one person noticed that momentary paleness and unsteadiness of step; it was natural that Angela, a sympathetic spectator in the background, should see more than even Elizabeth, whose eyes were dim with emotions which she could not have defined.

Explanations were hurriedly given, or deferred till a future time. It was proposed that the whole party should go on shore, as everyone was anxious to see the place where Percival had spent so long a time. Even Rupert talked gleefully of "seeing" it. Percival had never seen his friend so exultant, so triumphant. And then, without knowing exactly how it happened, he found himself for a moment alone with Elizabeth, with whom he had hitherto exchanged only a hurried, word or two of greeting. But her hand was still in his when he turned to speak to her alone.

"How beautiful you look!" he said. "If you knew what it is to me to see you again, Elizabeth!"

But it was not pure joy that sparkled in his eyes.

"Dear Percival! I am glad to see you, so glad to know that you are safe."

"You were sorry when you heard——"

"Oh," she said, "sorry is not the word. I could not forgive myself! I can never thank God enough that we have found you."

"Yes," said he, in a low tone. "I think you are glad that I am safe. I don't deserve that you should be, but——Well, never mind all that. Won't you give me one kiss, Elizabeth, my darling?" Then, in a more cheerful voice, "Come and see this wretched hole in which we have passed the last four months. It is an interesting place."

"Oh, Percival, it is just like yourself to say so!" said Elizabeth, smiling, but with tearful eyes. "And how pale and thin you are."

"You should have seen me a couple of months ago. I was a skeleton then," said Percival, as he opened the door for her. "A shell-fish diet is not one which I should recommend to an invalid."

He was conscious of a question in her eyes which he did not mean to answer: he even found time to whisper a word to Jackson before they got into the boat. "Not a word about Luttrell," he whispered. "Say it was a steerage passenger who gave his name as Mackay. And don't say anything unless they ask you point blank." Jackson stared, but nodded an assent. He had a good deal of faith in Mr. Heron's wisdom.

Pale and gaunt as Percival undoubtedly was, Elizabeth thought that he looked very like his old self, as he stood frowning and biting his moustache in the bows, and looking shorewards as though he were afraid of something that he might see. This familiar expression—something between anxiety and annoyance—made Elizabeth smile to herself in spite of her agitation. Percival was not much changed.

She was sitting near him, and she longed to ask the question which was uppermost in her mind; but it was a difficult question to ask, seeing that he did not mention Brian Luttrell of his own accord. With an effort that made her turn pale, she bent forward at last, and said, fixing her eyes steadily upon him:—

"What news of the Falcon?"

He looked at her and hesitated, "Don't ask me now," he said, averting his face.

She was silent. He heard a little sigh, and glancing at her again, saw a look of heart-sick resignation in her white face which told him that she thought Brian must be dead. He felt a pang of compunction, and a desire to tell her all, then he restrained himself. "She will not have to wait long," he thought, with a rather bitter smile.

When they landed, he quietly took her hand in his, and led her a little apart from the others. Angela and Rupert, Mrs. Norman and Mr. Fane, were, however, close behind. They followed Percival's footsteps as he showed the way to one of the huts which the men had occupied during their stay on the island. When they were near it, he turned and spoke to Rupert and Angela. "I am obliged to be very rude," he said. "Let me go into the hut with Miss Murray first of all. There is something I want her to see—something I must say. I will come back directly."

They saw that he was agitated, although he tried to speak as if nothing were the matter; and they drew back, respecting his emotion. As for Elizabeth, she waited: she could do nothing else. A little while ago she had said to herself that Percival was not changed: she thought differently now. He was changed; and yet she did not know how or why.

He stopped at the door, and turned to her. He still held her hand in a close, warm grasp. "Don't be startled," he said, gently. "I am going to surprise you very much. There is a friend of mine here: remember, I say, a friend of mine. He was saved from the wreck of the Falcon—do you understand whom I mean?"

And then he opened the door. "Brian," he said, in a voice that seemed strange to Elizabeth, because of its measured quietness, "come here."

Elizabeth was trembling from head to foot. "Don't be afraid, child," he said, with more of an approach to his old tones and looks than she had yet heard or seen; "nobody will hurt you. Here he is—and I think I may fairly say that I have kept my word."

Brian Luttrell had been collecting the possessions which he thought that his comrades might wish to take with them as mementoes of their stay upon the island. He sprang up quickly at the first sound of Percival's voice, and then stood, as if turned to stone, looking at Elizabeth. The healthy colour faded from his face, leaving it nearly as pale as hers; he set his lips, and Percival could see that he clenched his hands. Elizabeth did not look up at all.

"Is this all the thanks I get," said Percival, in an ironical tone, "for introducing one cousin to another? I have taken a good deal of trouble for you both; I think that now you have met you might be civil to each other."

There was a perceptible pause. Elizabeth was the first to recover herself. She made a step forward and put out her hand, which Brian instantly took in his. But neither of them spoke. Percival, with his back against the door, and his arms folded, observed them with a slightly humorous smile.

"You are surprised," he said to Elizabeth, "and I don't wonder. The last thing you expected was to find me on good terms with Brian Luttrell, was it not? And we have been on fairly good terms, have we not, Luttrell?"

"He saved my life twice," said Brian.

"And he nursed me through a fever," interposed Percival, with a huge laugh, "so we are quits. Oh, we have both played our parts in a highly creditable manner as long as we were on a desert island; but the island is inhabited now, and I think it's time that we returned to the habits of civilised life. As a matter of fact, I consider Brian Luttrell my deadliest enemy."

"You do nothing of the kind," said Brian, unable to repress a smile, although it hardly altered the look of pain that had come into his eyes. "Don't believe him, Miss Murray: I am glad to say that we are good friends."

"Idyllic simplicity! Don't you know that I did but dissemble, like the man in the play? How can we be friends when we both——" he stopped short, looked at Elizabeth, and then back at Brian, and finished his sentence—"both want to marry the same woman?"

"Heron, you are going too far. Don't make these allusions; they are unsuitable," said Brian.

Elizabeth had winced as if she had received a blow. Percival laughed in their faces.

"Out of taste, isn't it?" he said. "I ought to ignore the circumstances under which we meet, and talk as if we were in a drawing-room. I'm not such a fool. Look here, you two: let us talk sensibly. I have surely a right to demand something of you both, have I not?"

"Yes, yes, indeed," they answered.

"Then, for Heaven's sake, speak the truth! Here have I been chasing Brian half over the world, getting myself shipwrecked and thrown on desert islands, and what not, all because I wanted you, Elizabeth, to acknowledge that I was not such a mean and selfish wretch as you concluded me to be. Have I cleared myself? or, perhaps I should say, have I expiated the crime that I did commit?"

"It was no crime," said Brian, warmly. "No one who knows you could think you capable of meanness."

"I was not speaking to you, Mr. Luttrell," said Percival. "You're not in it at all. I am having a little conversation with my cousin. Well, Elizabeth, what do you say?"

"I think you have been most kind and generous," she said.

"Then I may retire with a good character? And, to come back to what I said before, as we both wish——"

"You are not generous now, Heron," said Brian, quickly.

"No! But I will be—sometime. You seem very anxious to repudiate all desire to marry my cousin. Have you changed your mind?"

"Percival, I will not listen. Have you brought me here only to insult me?" cried Elizabeth, passionately.

Percival smiled. "I am waiting for Brian Luttrell's answer," he replied, looking at him steadily.

"I do not know what answer you expect," said Brian, "unless you want me to say the truth—that I loved Elizabeth Murray with all my heart and soul, before I knew that she had promised to be your wife; and that as I loved her then, I love her still. It is my misfortune—or my privilege—to do so; I scarcely know which. And for that reason, as you know, I have earnestly wished never to cross her path again, lest I should trouble her or distress her in any way."

"Fate has been against you," said Percival, grimly. "You seem destined to cross her path in one way or another—and mine, too. It is time all this came to an end. You think I am saying disagreeable things for the mere pleasure of saying them; but it is not so. I will beg your pardon afterwards if I hurt you. What I want to say is this: I withdraw all my claims, if I had any, to Miss Murray's hand. I release her from any promise that she ever made to me. She is as free to choose as—as you are yourself, or as I am. We have both offered ourselves to Miss Murray at different times. It is for her to say which of us she prefers."

There was a silence. Elizabeth's face changed from white to red, from red to white again. At last she looked up, and looked at Brian. He came to her side at once, as if he saw that she wanted help.

"Percival," he said, "you are very generous in act: be generous in word as well. Let the matter rest. It is cruel to ask her to decide."

"It seems to me that she has decided," said Percival, with a sharp, short laugh, "seeing that she lets you speak for her."

"Oh, Percival, forgive me," murmured Elizabeth.

A spasm of pain seemed to pass over his face as he turned towards her: then it grew strangely gentle. "My dear," he said, "I never pretended to be anything but a very selfish fellow; but if I can secure your happiness, I shall feel that I have accomplished one, at least, of the ends of my life. There!"—with a laugh: "I think that's well said. Haven't I known for months that I should be obliged to give you up to Luttrell in the long run? And the worst is, that I haven't the satisfaction of hating him through it all, because we have managed—I don't know how—to fight our way to a sort of friendship. Eh, Brian? And now I'll leave you to yourself for a few minutes, and you can settle the matter while you have the opportunity."

He walked out of the hut before they could protest. But the smile died away from his lips when he had left them, and was succeeded for a few minutes by an expression of intense pain. He stood and looked at the sea; perhaps it was the dazzling reflection of the sun upon the waters which made his eyes so dim. After five minutes' reflection, he shrugged his shoulders and turned away.

"There's one great consolation in returning to civilised life," he said, strolling up to the group of friends as they returned from a walk round the island. "That is—tobacco! Fate can't do much harm to the man who smokes." And he accepted a cigarette from Mr. Fane. "Now," he continued, "fortune may buffet me as she pleases; I do not care. I have not smoked for four months. Consequently I am as happy as a king."

He smoked with evident satisfaction; but Angela thought that she discerned a look of trouble upon his face.