She went up on deck, moving dazedly, with a strange sense of unreality upon her, as if she had somehow wandered into a cold, dim world of dreams.

The firing had ceased, and the yacht was no longer in motion. The confused whirlwind of brain-shaking events which revolved in her memory might now have been a part of the dream in which she was still entangled. The Countess de Mattos's beautiful eyes swept the moon-drenched scene for enlightenment, but none came.

They were not now in the harbour, that alone was clear; but land was close, and black horns of rock stood up out of the shining water as if they had broken through a great sheet of looking-glass. Across this bright, mirror-like surface a small boat was being quickly rowed toward the yacht. It was very near now, and several dark figures could be distinguished in it besides those of the four rowers. Another boat, much larger, with more than twice the number of oars, swiftly rising and falling, was hurrying away in the direction of a high, rocky point on the island itself.

A chill premonition of evil fell upon the woman's soul. It was like a heavy nightmare weight that might only be felt, not seen, and could not be shaken off. But the Countess de Mattos had experienced this undefinable misery before, when the reaction came after taking too large a dose of chlorodyne with her "solace." She hoped that it was merely this now—that it was no real warning of trouble or threatening danger.

Virginia stood talking to Dr. Grayle and gazing eagerly toward the advancing boat. The Countess de Mattos glanced at the two wistfully, longing to go to them and ask questions. Yet something seemed to hold her back. It was as if a whisper in her ear advised that there were things it was better not to know. This was ridiculous, of course. It was always more prudent to know about disagreeable things before they could happen, and then sometimes they could be prevented, or at least staved off till one was more prepared to grapple with them. But all the beautiful woman's prudence was in abeyance to-night. The quality had not been born in her, but acquired; which can never be the same.

She felt weak and unnerved, with a great longing to cling to some one stronger and wiser than herself. But there was no such person at hand for her. These others had their own interests. If they really cared for her at all it was because she was ornamental, a thing of beauty which it is pleasant to have within sight; and usually it was very convenient to the Countess de Mattos to be considered thus. Indeed, most of the luxuries which she loved so much more dearly than the necessities of life came through her distinct value as an ornament. But now what was ordinarily enough for her failed to satisfy. She felt horribly alone in the world, as if she had slipped upon some terrible ledge of rock overhanging a sheer precipice, and there was no one—no one on earth to help her back to safety. Tears of self-pity rose hot in her eyes as she stood, not far from Virginia and the doctor, hesitating what to do.

They were so absorbed in watching the approach of the boat that they were unconscious of her presence, and suddenly it began to fascinate the Countess de Mattos also, as if it were one of the discs which hypnotists give to their patients. She, too, bent over the rail and gazed at the boat as the rowers brought it nearer and nearer, but she could not see the faces of its occupants. For three or four minutes she stood thus, and then the boat was under the yacht's side and the men were coming up the ladder.

The Countess moved nearer to Virginia and Dr. Grayle. She no longer intended—for the moment at least—to catechize them, but it occurred to her that, by merely standing within earshot while the others exchanged questions and answers, the mystery of this night's alarming work would be explained to her. Without being seen by her hostess or the little doctor, she was so close now that the trailing silk and lace of her robe de chambre was blown by the light breeze against Virginia's white dress.

"Thank heaven—thank heaven!" she heard the girl exclaim as some one came on board. The pair in front of her crowded so closely toward this person that she could not see who it was, and could only suppose that it must be Sir Roger Broom or George Trent returning from some strange adventure. Then, suddenly, she saw the newcomer's face, with the moon shining full upon it, chiselling it into the perfection of a marble masterpiece of old, thrown up by the sea from some long engulfed palace.

She stared, incredulous, her breath in abeyance, her heart stopped like a jarred clock. Then, over Virginia's shoulder, a pair of dark eyes found hers—eyes darkened with tragedy while youth and joy should still have shone in their untroubled depths.

Ah, the awfulness of that instant, the ghastly horror of it! Something in the woman's brain seemed to snap, and, with a loud shriek that cut the new-fallen silence as a jagged knife-blade of lightning cuts the sky, she threw out her hands to shut away the sight and fell backward, fainting. Virginia turned, and knew that her great moment had come.

When the Countess de Mattos came to herself she awoke gazing straight upward at the stars, which danced a strange, whirling measure as the horizon rose and dipped with the swift forging of the yacht. She was lying on the deck, her head supported on something low and soft, and Dr. Grayle bent over her, kneeling on one knee.

"All right again?" he inquired cheerfully, in his blunt way.

She did not answer, for with desperate haste she was collecting her thoughts, linking together broken impressions. An awful thing had happened. What? she asked herself. Then suddenly the vision flashed back to her, and she shuddered. Lowering her lids, so that the thick, black fringe of lashes veiled her eyes, she glanced anxiously about. Had it been a vision and no more, or was it real, and should she have to meet those accusing eyes again? As she debated thus Virginia stepped forward.

"I think, Countess, that you will do now," said Dr. Grayle. "There is a wounded man below who needs my services, but refused them until you should have recovered."

"Oh, go—go!" murmured his patient in irritable weakness.

The little doctor got up, and as he walked quickly away Virginia took his place.

"Can I do anything for you?" she asked.

The Countess shook her head. Her face looked lined and haggard, despite its beauty, in the bleaching light of the moon, and Virginia was almost sorry for her. She could afford to pity the woman now, she thought, for she had triumphed. Her case was proved beyond all doubt, and even Roger, who had heard the scream of recognition and witnessed the fainting fit, could no longer deny that the Countess de Mattos and Liane Devereux were one. Virginia would not strike a blow at a fallen enemy, and, holding this woman in the hollow of her hand, as she believed she did, she was ready to give such help as could be given without injuring the cause she served.

"Wouldn't you like to go back to your stateroom?" she went on. "You have had a great shock, and——"

The Countess sat up quickly, pushing her disordered hair away from her eyes. "I don't know what you mean by a shock," she said, "unless you refer to the terrible cannonading. That was enough, I should think, to frighten the bravest. No wonder I fainted. And then, seeing that ghastly man, dressed like a forÇat, all dripping wet, and stained red with blood, was the last drop in the cup of fear. I cannot think what horrors have been happening to-night."

All Virginia's pity was swept away. Her heart hardened toward this tiger-woman.

"Cannot you think?" she echoed bitterly. "Then I will tell you. We have been rescuing an innocent man, who for years has suffered untold miseries for a crime never committed. Thank heaven that his sufferings are ended at last, for we have him on board this yacht, which is carrying him away from New Caledonia at about twenty knots an hour, and we have the proof with us which will establish his innocence before many days have passed."

"It is a crime for a forÇat to evade his prison—a crime to aid him," cried the Countess.

"We are not afraid of the punishment," said Virginia, hot, indignant blood springing to her cheeks. "We are ready to face the consequences of our own actions."

The emphasis was an accusation, but the Countess de Mattos did not wince under the lash. Even a coward may be brave in a hand-to-hand fight for life; and it was only physically that she was a coward.

"You are courageous," she said, almost wholly mistress of herself now, "and, of course, you know your own affairs best, dear girl. But I am not so brave. This awful night has tried me severely, and has come near to spoiling our so pleasant trip. It has sickened me of the sea and of yachting. I shall beg to be landed as soon as convenient to you."

"It will be convenient to us when you have confessed everything in writing," Virginia flung at her, stung into mercilessness by the woman's brazen defiance. "Then, and not before, you may leave this yacht."

The Countess de Mattos arose from her lowly place as gracefully and with as much dignity as such an act could be performed. While she sat on the floor and Virginia towered over her, the enemy had too much advantage of position. The two were of one height, and, standing, they faced each other like contending goddesses.

"You speak in riddles," said the elder woman.

"Riddles to which you have the key."

"I do not know what you mean, except that it seems to me it is your intention to be insolent."

"In your code, perhaps, honesty is insolence. But I do not wish to forget that, in a way, you are my guest. I asked you to come for a purpose, I admit; yet——"

"Ah! you admit that. Possibly you will condescend to inform me what your purpose was?"

"My purpose was to make assurance doubly sure. To-night I have done this."

"Evidently you do not wish me to understand you."

"Say, rather, you do not wish to understand me. I think you must do so, in spite of yourself; but lest you should not, I will tell you. I suspected that you were the woman whom Maxime Dalahaide was accused of murdering. Now I know that you are not the Countess de Mattos, but Liane Devereux!"

The woman's green-gray eyes were like steel in the moonlight. "Maxime Dalahaide; Liane Devereux," she slowly repeated. "I never heard these names."

Virginia was struck dumb by the other's effrontery, almost frightened by it. If this terrible creature withdrew into a brazen fortress of lies, who could tell how long a siege she might be able to withstand? The girl had been astonished and dismayed in the morning, when the first sally of the attack had failed; but then her strongest forces, her most deadly weapons, had been still in reserve. Now they had been brought against the enemy's defenses and—the walls had not fallen; there was no sign of capitulation. A cold misgiving began to stir in Virginia's mind. Would it mean failure if the Countess de Mattos obstinately refused to tell the truth?

After all, she was only a girl, opposed to a woman whose varied experience of thirty years or more had endowed her with infinite resource. Virginia's stricken silence gave the other a new advantage.

"As you have said yourself," icily began the Countess once more, "you are my hostess. You flattered me; you made me think that you were my friend; you asked me on board your yacht, and I came, trustingly, ignorant that, under some wild mistake which even now I do not comprehend, you plotted my betrayal. Why, it was a Judas act!"

"If I did evil, I did it that good might come," said poor Virginia. "And it shall come. You are Liane Devereux. You were guilty of the 'Judas act.' Maxime Dalahaide loved you; and with what motive I don't yet know, but mean to know, you betrayed him to a fate worse than death. For that you deserve anything. Yes, I kidnapped you. That's what Roger called it, and I don't repent now. You are here on this yacht with Maxime Dalahaide, and we are on the open sea. Unless you jump overboard, you cannot get away from your atonement. Atonement—that is the word. Oh, woman, woman—if you are a woman and not a stone, think what atonement would mean for you! You must have had terrible moments, living with remembrances like yours—a man who loved you sent to a living grave. Now it is in your power to make up to him—ever so little, perhaps, but a thousand times better than nothing—for the wrong you did. Do this—do it, and be thankful all the rest of your life for the blessed chance which heaven has sent you."

The Countess laughed. "You change your tone suddenly—from threats to an appeal. You would make quite a good preacher, but your eloquence can have no effect on my conscience, as I have not the remotest idea what you are talking about. I had let myself grow fond of you, and I was grateful for all these lazy, pleasant weeks, and for the money you lent me; but now that I know what was underneath your seeming kindness I am no more grateful, and I shall do my best to punish you for the wicked trick you have played upon me. As for attempting to prove that I am—what name did you give the woman?—well, anybody except myself, you will find it impossible. I have powerful friends who would travel far to save me from any trouble. You cannot keep me a prisoner on board this yacht. You must touch again at land before long, and then I shall go away and tell every one what has happened on your Bella Cuba."

"We shall see," said Virginia.

"We shall see," echoed the Countess. "And now I am going to my stateroom. Perhaps I may hope to be free from persecution there."

She swept away, looking gorgeously beautiful, and as proud as a queen bent on holding her crown against the people's will.

Virginia stood still, watching her; and when the tall, stately figure had disappeared, a crushing sense of defeat fell upon the girl.

Only a few moments ago, as time counted, she had felt that, with Maxime Dalahaide's rescue, she had every wish of her heart fulfilled. But now she saw the position of affairs with changed eyes. It was as different as a flower-decked ballroom seen by the light of a thousand glittering candles, and again by sunrise when the candles had burnt down and the flowers faded.

Maxime was out of prison; there was that, at all events, to be thankful for, and there was nothing at New Caledonia which could even attempt to give chase to the wicked little Bella Cuba. Nevertheless, the French Government had a long arm, and would not quietly let a convict sentenced for life be snatched away without making a grab to get him back again. Virginia had known this from the first, but when Roger had pointed the fact out to her as one of the difficulties to be encountered, she had said in the beginning: "If we have the luck to rescue him we shall have the luck to hide him," and afterward, when she had seen the Countess de Mattos at Cairo, she had amended the prophecy by saying: "If they catch us we shall be able to prove his innocence."

It had all seemed very simple, and she had been impatient with Roger for bringing up so many discouraging objections to her impulsively formed plans. He had gone in with them at last, without, however, pretending to be convinced, and she had bribed him with a virtual promise of marriage. He had done all that she had asked of him, and more; and she would have to keep her promise, but—had she accomplished enough that was good for Maxime, to pay for the sacrifice? It would be a sacrifice—a greater one than she had known at first, greater than, somehow, she had realized until to-day. She must pay the price; and Maxime—what of him?

If his innocence could not be proved, through the dead woman miraculously come alive, he could never, at best, go back to France; and as the crime of which he was accused came under the extradition treaty, he would be safe nowhere. He must—as he himself had said—lead "a hunted life," wherever he might be. Neither money, nor influence, nor yearning sister-love, nor—the love of friends who would give their heart's blood to save him, could shield Maxime Dalahaide from the sword of Damocles, ever suspended, ever ready to fall.

When the Marchese Loria received Lady Gardiner's telegram from Sydney, he was stunned. "Leaving here to-morrow," the message ran; "destination unknown."

Unknown to her the destination might be, but it was not unknown to him. He was almost as sure that the Bella Cuba was bound for New Caledonia, as if Dr. Grayle had allowed Kate Gardiner to send her desired word from prison-land; and although he had constantly assured himself that if Virginia did go there it could do no harm, now that he was morally certain she would go, he quivered with vague apprehension.

At first, he could not force his mind to concentrate itself upon the intricacies of the situation. He walked up and down his room, like a caged animal, trying to think how, if it were by moving heaven and earth, he could prevent Virginia Beverly and the convict Max Dalahaide from coming together. Then, with the thought that they might meet seething in his head, he would stop abruptly and say to himself, as he had said so often before: "Nonsense; you are a fool. They cannot come together. There is everything against it." Still, the root of fear was there, and grew again as soon as burned away.

If he chose, he might send a warning to the prison authorities at New Caledonia. He could say that the Bella Cuba was a suspicious craft, and ought not to be allowed in the harbour for a single hour. But to do this, he would be obliged either to proceed to Paris and give satisfactory reasons why such proceedings should be taken, or wire the warning message himself, signing his own name. No other method would be of any avail, as the governor of the prison would pay no attention to an anonymous telegram, and there was now no time to write a letter. He would be obliged also to assert positively that he knew the Bella Cuba's errand to be treacherous; and, whether he went to Paris, or telegraphed, through Sydney, to New Caledonia, in either case Virginia was certain to find out, later, what he had done. Such secrets could not be successfully hidden, and she would hate him for his interference. If there was little hope for him now, there would be none then.

When his wits began to work he regarded the situation from all points of view. He admitted the remote—extremely remote—possibility that the party on the Bella Cuba might actually contemplate a rescue. He would almost have been ready to stake his life that, if such an attempt were made, it would fail ignominiously, with disaster to all concerned—perhaps death to more than one. But—it might succeed. If it did, what would happen?

They would not dare to put back to Sydney Heads. The yacht must be coaled and provisioned somewhere. He consulted maps, and saw that the most likely place for the Bella Cuba to proceed on leaving New Caledonia was Samoa. It seemed to him that she must go there, in any case.

Loria did not wish to appear as an active enemy of Maxime Dalahaide's. It was largely owing to his efforts on the prisoner's behalf that Max had been saved from the guillotine, and all the Dalahaides must have known that. Virginia, no doubt, knew it too. But what was to be done, if he were not to fling aside the cloak of his reputation as a friend of that unfortunate family? The spirit of high romance ran in Virginia Beverly's blood. She was capable of marrying an escaped prisoner, and sharing his miserable, hunted existence. Such a thing must not be. Loria felt that it would be less bearable to lose her through Max Dalahaide than through any other man. He would rather see her Roger Broom's wife than Maxime's, but he had not yet given up all hope of having her for his own.

He would have just time to go to Samoa and meet the Bella Cuba there, if he started at once. The yacht would not leave Sydney Heads till next day, according to the news in the telegram. Then it would take her ten days more to reach New Caledonia. There she was sure to remain for some hours, at the very least. If he, Loria, caught a certain "greyhound of the sea" which was sailing from Cherbourg for New York the following morning, took a fast express from New York for San Francisco, and then sailed immediately for Samoa, he could not fail to be in time for the Bella Cuba. But the important thing was to find an excuse to account for his being there when the Bella Cuba arrived.

He was not, luckily for his present plan, supposed to know for what parts the yacht had been bound; therefore, if he went to Samoa to visit his friend the French Consul, who had once really invited him to do so, even Virginia need not suspect his motive. His opportune appearance might pass merely as a rather odd coincidence.

If the Bella Cuba took away a fugitive on board, the authorities at New Caledonia would not remain idle. They would at once wire to Sydney of a convict's escape, and the telegram would be sent on to Samoa from there. A description of the yacht would be given, and inquiries would be made. But those inquiries! It was because of them that Loria was ready to make so strong an effort to be there in time. Without him, the fugitive from justice might be allowed to escape, despite the extradition treaty. With him, Loria thought that he saw a way to make the detention of the prisoner sure, and that without showing the hand he played.

He had not lost many hours in indecision. As soon as he had made up his mind what to do, he wired to find out if there were still a berth to be had on board the New York bound ship sailing from Cherbourg next day. Even if he had been forced to travel in the steerage he would have gone, though he keenly disliked physical hardships; but he was fortunate, and obtained a good cabin for himself. As soon as this matter was arranged he left for Cherbourg; and next day, on board his ship, gazing across the tumbled gray expanse of sea, he thought of Virginia on her little yacht, and smiled. About this time, perhaps, the Bella Cuba was steaming boldly from Sydney Heads, bound for New Caledonia—on what strange, desperate errand, who could tell? The girl's heart was beating high with hope, no doubt. How little she guessed that, half across the world, a man was setting forth to defeat her plans, even if they attained success!