The Pursuit Part 48

"In five minutes we, too, shall know. We are circling for the Marina now. A couple of hundred yards and we shall be there!"

They strode on into the darkness, with eyes and ears alert. They heard the battling of the waves against the stones of the tiny pier, but what they did not hear was the sound of singing cordage in the felucca's rigging.

Aylmer halted with a sudden, m.u.f.fled exclamation.

"They have uns.h.i.+pped the mast!" he cried sharply, and this time she recognized, even in his voice, the note of defeat.

She echoed his exclamation; she followed at his heels as he ran out upon the little breakwater. No, there had been no room for mistake. The great mast with its cross spar lay along the stone flags. The hull was snugly berthed alongside it, within the tiny harbor. The dingy? There was none; they had cast it loose when they fled from the torpedo boat through the island channel.

For a moment he did not speak. He stood, looking silently at the dismantled boat, the raging sea, the swinging lights of a pa.s.sing steamer. Then he turned and shook his head.

"To step that mast into place again is beyond one man's strength," he said. "To fling ourselves out into that whirl on a mastless hull is to court death inevitably. What is the alternative? We could stand in front of the shed here, screened from view inland, and signal some pa.s.sing vessel with flares, if we had the means of making a light. That would not be a good chance, but it has possibilities."

"And I have matches!" she said eagerly. "I have my chatelaine still. I have even my purse yet. So far they have not robbed me."

He turned as she spoke and without comment ran back across the s.h.i.+ngle.

He began to pluck handfuls of the dry, bent gra.s.s which found a spa.r.s.e livelihood in the belt of sand between the sh.o.r.e and the vineyards. He returned, rummaged among the litter around the shed, broke up some stray pieces of driftwood into chips, and thrust a lighted match among the bents. A flame shot up, pa.s.sed from the tinder to the wood, and within a minute was a well-lit fire. He twisted the remaining handfuls of gra.s.s into spirals, wetted them slightly in the sea, and held them to the flame.

They burnt slowly with a red glow, as he swung them to and fro in the wind; in dashes, in dots, in circles, he spelled messages into the night, but no answering lantern or rocket came from the sea. And she watched apathetically. For her hope was dead again, the hand of Fate had closed. This was action; this helped them to avoid thinking, to avert antic.i.p.ation, but success was a matter outside her calculations. The sense of nightmare closed down upon her again. The storm, the red flashes against the purple darkness, the wild unaccustomedness of everything heightened the illusion. But when would she wake? Ah, when would she wake?

And then--she rubbed her eyes. A light--surely this was no freak of her fevered eyesight?--danced into view within a couple of hundred yards of the sh.o.r.e. For a moment it swung to the lift and surge of the waves alone, but a moment later it rose half a dozen feet into the air, and flashed and circled as the charred torch in Aylmer's hand was circling--an answer to their message of despair. She gasped with eagerness; she cried aloud.

Was it fancy or did another cry reach them through the thunder of the waves?

The light stayed motionless for an instant, and then swung towards them.

Whatever vessel was bearing it had turned its prow towards the sh.o.r.e.

Aylmer caught up another glowing handful of bents and ran out to the breakwater's end. Claire's heart beat in suffocating throbs as she followed.

Again a cry reached them, and Aylmer waved his beacon vigorously. A sudden shaft of moonlight sank through a rift in the flying clouds.

They saw it then--a dark ma.s.s which plunged and heaved among the white crests, and drifted nearer and nearer. There was no sail set, but they could see the rise and fall of a couple of great oars which steadied the boat as it advanced by drifting only. It was less than a cable length distant now, pa.s.sing through the ring of rocks which guarded the harbor entrance.

They held their breath. Ten seconds would do it, but ten seconds held an infinitude of possibilities. If the boat broached to, if its prow, indeed, deflected a couple of yards from the course, would not that give Fate a chance to fling her scorn upon their rising hopes? Their eyes were strained. Claire's hand was clenched till her nails seemed to sink into the flesh of her palm. And then she gave a sigh of relief. The boat had pa.s.sed the outer rock, was heading straight for the inner harbor and the calm.

Fate laughed harshly.

A gust stormed in from the sea, caught the boat's prow, swung it, caused the port side rower to meet its strength too swiftly with his own. They heard a crack--heard it distinctly above the uproars of the gale. The oar had broken between the thole-pins; the rower was down.

There was another cras.h.i.+ng sound, louder this time, and menacing. A great sea raced beneath the laboring keel, lifted it, shook it, and flung it aside, full upon the rock. The white gleam of the new-made splinters reached them through the smother of the foam fifty yards away.

Aylmer cried out and raced back along the stones. His hands plucked at the cordage which was folded about the felucca's mast, and drew out a rope. He came back at speed, unwinding the coils as he came. He thrust the loose end into her hands.

"Get a purchase against a stone and then hold on--hold on!" he ordered.

He flung off his coat.

She cried out in protest; she clung to him.

"No!" she cried. "No!"

Very gently, very firmly, her hand was drawn aside. He bent over her; something touched faintly--very faintly--her lips. The next instant she was alone. He had leaped--far out into the grip of the tide.

She caught her breath and clutched the rope; she flung herself down and wedged her limbs behind a boulder. Fate was relentless, she told herself, was cruel beyond even her darkest antic.i.p.ations. For now her one support was to be denied her; she was to be left alone. She set her lips grimly. No, she would never see Aylmer again, but she would defy Fate! She was to be crushed, but she would go down fighting; she would be worthy of herself--and of him.

The vagrant shaft of moonlight was gone again; the darkness was well-nigh impenetrable. The rope swung between her fingers unstraining.

The minutes pa.s.sed one by one; the tension of expectancy plucked at her nerves; she s.h.i.+vered, but not with cold. Even if it was the worst that was to come upon her she wanted to know--to know.

The rope grew taut.

It was as if an electric shock thrilled her. She braced herself against the stone, and her muscles tightened; slowly, using her strength to its utmost but with steady effort, she began to haul it in foot by foot. It came heavily but unceasingly, the coils unwinding fathom after fathom at her side.

And then the strain ceased as suddenly as it had begun. A voice hailed her out of the darkness, almost at her feet. A dark bulk rose at the breakwater's edge.

Aylmer staggered towards her and laid something on the stones--something which stirred uneasily but unavailingly, clogged, as it seemed, by the weight of its sodden clothing.

She knelt beside it. She brushed the lank hair from a dripping face.

Aylmer waved her back.

"There is another!" he shouted. "Hold on if you can! Hold on!" and so plunged back into the surf. For the second time she braced herself to endure the strain--to wait--to agonize with expectation. And again Fate played with her, racked her between hope and fear, drew out the strain and then, as suddenly, relaxed it. Aylmer crept out upon the stones, gasping, doggedly clinging to a new burden.

This time it was the bearer who staggered and fell, the burden who rose unsteadily, and peered into his rescuer's face.

She dropped upon her knees beside him. Pale, clean-cut ascetic features were lifted to hers. Two dark brown eyes inspected her with startled incredulity.

And then the man rose and--the act was instinctive, it was obvious--doffed his hat.

"Signora," he said in Italian. "Signora! This is Salicudi, is it not? I am at a loss--I do not understand."

For a moment she hesitated, looking at him. The long black garment which clung about him reached to his feet. Suddenly she recognized it, and, with recognition, a little cry escaped her. It was a _soutane_. And this was no sailor. She was confronted by a priest.

As she opened her lips to find a reply, something clattered behind her; something rushed, calling upon the names of innumerable saints, out of the darkness, and seized her shoulder. A harsh voice rang into the echoes of the night.

"To me--to me, all of you! They are escaping! Blood of My Lady, the prisoners are loose!"

The man in the soutane whirled fiercely upon the newcomer. And as he turned the moon broke through the scurry of the drift and fell upon the group in cold brilliance.

"Prisoners!" The voice was incredulous, wrathful, and above all full of command. "Prisoners! You speak of--whom?"

The hand upon Claire's shoulder dropped. Her captor fell away as if struck by a physical blow.

"Padre Sigi!" he stammered, and his voice was convincing of his amazement. "Padre Sigi!"

The other nodded imperiously.

"Padre Sigismondi," he agreed. "At your service, my good Luigi. At your service!"