hammering below continued, but whether she had made herself heard or not was uncertain.  Confronted by a dire possibility, he exerted himself to the utmost to still that warning voice.  In frenzied haste he seized the heavy scarf she had thrown around her shoulders upon leaving the cabin and wound it about her face and head.  The sinuous body seemed to grow limp in his arms.  His was not a pleasant task but a necessary one.  This woman had delivered the girl to the prince in the first place; would now attempt to frustrate her escape.  Any moment some one else might come on deck and discover them.

“Quick!  Why don’t you come?” Betty Dalrymple’s anxious voice ascended from the darkness.

The youth knew well that no time must be lost, but what to do?  He could not leave the woman.  She might be only feigning unconsciousness.  And anyway they would soon find her and learn the truth.  That would mean their quick recapture.  Already he thought he heard a footstep descending from the bridge—­approaching—­With extraordinary strength for one of Francois’ slender build, he swung the figure of the woman over the side, dropped her into the boat and followed himself.  A breathless moment of suspense ensued; he listened.  The approaching footsteps came on; then paused, and turned the other way.  The youth waited no longer.  The little boat at the side was lowered softly; it touched the water and floated away from the Nevski like a leaf.  Then the darkness swallowed it.

“How far are we from the yacht now, Francois?”

“Only a few miles, Mademoiselle.”

“Do you think we’ll be far enough away at daybreak so they can’t see us?”

“Have no fear, Mademoiselle.”  The voice of Francois in the stern, thrilled.  “There’s a fair sailing wind.”

“Isn’t it strange”—­Betty Dalrymple, speaking half to herself, regarded the motionless form in the bottom of the boat—­“that she, of all persons, and I, should be thus thrust together, in such a tiny craft, on such an enormous sea?”

“I really couldn’t help it, Mademoiselle”—­apologetically—­“bringing her with us.  There was no alternative.”

“Oh, I’m not criticizing you, who did so splendidly.”  The girl’s eyes again fell.  “She is unconscious a long time, Francois.”

The youth’s reply was lost amid the sound of the waters.  Only the sea talked now, wildly, moodily; flying feathers of foam flecked the night.  The boat took the waves laboriously and came down with shrill seething.  She seemed ludicrously minute amid that vast unrest.  The youth steered steadily; to Betty Dalrymple he seemed just going on anyhow, dashing toward a black blanket with nothing beyond.  It was all very wonderful and awe-inspiring as well as somewhat fearsome.  The waves had a cruel sound if one listened to them closely.  A question floating in her mind found, after a long time, hesitating but audible expression: 

“Do you think there’s any doubt about our being able to make one of the islands, Francois?”