The man on the shore emptied his weapon, but with what success he could not tell.  A head amid the dark waves was not easily discernible.  Another and larger object, however, was plainly apparent about a hundred yards from land—­a fishing-boat that swung at anchor.  Would the other succeed in reaching it, for that was, no doubt, his purpose, or had one of the leaden missives told?  The man, with weapon hot, waited.  He scanned the water, then looked toward the town.  A number of figures on the beach were hastening in his direction; from the pier afar, a naphtha put out; he could hear faintly the sound of the engine.

Suddenly, above the boat at anchor near the man on shore, a sail shot up, then fluttered and snapped in the wind.  A moment later it was drawn in, the line holding the craft to the buoy slipped out, and the bow swung sharply around.  Mr. Heatherbloom worked swiftly; one desire moved him—­to get around that point before being overtaken—­to discover what lay beyond.  Then let happen what would!  He reached for a line and hoisted a jib, though it was almost more canvas than his small craft could carry.  She careened and plunged, throwing the spray high.  He turned a quick glance back toward the naphtha.  The sky had become overcast, and distant objects were not so easily discernible on the surface of the water, but he made out her lights—­two!  She was head on for him.

He looked steadily ahead again.  The grim line of out-jutting rocks—­a black shadow against the sky—­exercised a weird fascination for him.  He was well out in the open now where the wind blew a half-gale.  His figure was wet from the sea but he felt no chill.  Suddenly the hand gripping the tiller tightened, and his heart gave a great bound; then sank.  Not far from that portentous point of land he saw another light—­green!  A boat was emerging from the big basin of water beyond.  The starboard signal, set high above the waves, belonged to no small craft such as the woman had embarked in.  The sight of it fitted a contingency that had flashed through his brain on the beach.  The realization left him helpless now—­his last opportunity was gone!

He shifted the tiller violently, recklessly.  At that moment a shrill whistle from behind reminded him once more of the naphtha; he could have laughed.  What was the wretched little puffing thing to him now?  The single green light—­that alone was the all in all.  It belonged to the Nevski he was sure; for one reason or another she had but made pretense of going to sea, and, instead, had come here—­to wait.  The woman was on her now, and, also—­The thought maddened him.

Again that piercing whistle!  The naphtha was coming up fast; amid the turmoil of his thoughts he realized this vaguely.  He did not wish to find himself delivered unto them yet—­not just yet!  A wilder recklessness seized him.  Clouds sped across the heavens like gripping furies’ hands; the water ran level to his boat’s gunwales but he refused to ease her.  All the while he was drawing nearer the single green light—­a mocking light, signal of a mocking chase that had led, and could lead, to nothing.  Still he went on, tossed by the waves—­sport of them.  He had to play the play out.  Oh, to see better, to visualize to the utmost the last scene of his poignant drama of failure!