“What boat?” said Rudolph.

Chantel did not look up.

“I have one ready and stocked,” he mumbled, tugging with his teeth at the knot in the sarong corners.  “You can come.  We’ll drop down the river, and try it along the coast.  Only chance.  Come on.”

He rose, and started for the door, slinging the bright-colored bundle over his shoulder.  “Come on,” he snarled.  Against the gay pattern, his handsome pirate face shone brown and evil in the lamplight.  “Damn you, I’ve waited long enough for your whims.  Stay there and be killed, then.”

He ran to the stairs, and down.  The woman’s arms began to drag loosely, as if she were slipping to the floor; then suddenly, with a cry, she turned and bolted.  Run as he might, Rudolph did not overtake her till she had caught Chantel at the gate.  All three, silent, sped across fields toward the river, through the startling shadows and dim orange glow from distant flames.

The rough ground sloped, at last, and sent them stumbling down into mud.  Behind them the bank ran black and ragged against the glow; before them, still more black, lay the river, placid, mysterious, and safe.  Through the mud they labored heavily toward a little, smoky light—­a lantern gleaming faintly on a polished gunwale, the shoulders of a man, and the thin, slant line that was his pole.

“Lowdah?” called Chantel; and the shoulders moved, the line shifted, as the boatman answered.  Chantel pitched the bundle over the lantern, and leapt on board.  Rudolph came slowly, carrying in his arms the woman, who lay quiet and limp, clasping him in a kind of drowsy oblivion.  He felt the flutter of her lips, while she whispered in his ear strange, breathless entreaties, a broken murmur of endearments, unheard-of, which tempted him more than the wide, alluring darkness of the river.

He lowered her slowly; and leaning against the gunwale, she still clung to his hands.

“Aboard!  Quickly!” snapped their leader, from the dusk behind the lantern.

Obeying by impulse, Rudolph moved nearer the gunwale.  The slippery edge, polished by bare feet through many years, seemed the one bit of reality in this dream, except the warmth of her hands.

“To the nunnery?” he asked, trying dully to rouse from a fascination.

“No, no,” she wailed.  “Down—­away—­safe.”

“No, back to them,” he answered stupidly.  “They are all there.  Your—­he is there.  We can’t leave—­”

“You fool!” Chantel swore in one tongue, and in another cried to the boatman—­“Shove off, if they won’t come!” He seized the woman roughly and pulled her on board; but she reached out and caught Rudolph’s hand again.

“Come, hurry,” she whispered, tugging at him.  “Come, dear boy.  I won’t leave you.  Quickly.  You saw it burning.  They’re all dead.  It’s no use.  We must live.  We must live, darling.”